


Red Thread

by grumblebee



Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Blood, Historical Homophobia, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Physical Abuse, Revenge, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorned and turned, Benedict Arnold enlists the help of Robert Rogers to hunt down Ben, and crush George once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gentleman's Agreement

Demar’s Tavern was a foul place. Crammed between two crooked brothels,reeking of piss and spilt wine, it served only as a reminder that men will stoop abominably low to fulfill their dark desires.

Arnold held a handkerchief across his face, drawing in the light trace of sandalwood to combat the rampant smell of vomit. He stuck out like a sore thumb; tall, rigid, clad in glaring red. It was best he made his deal early, and retreat before some vagrant or drunken rebel recognized him.

The crowd parted like a lazy drunken wave, some men tumbling to the ground like surf crashing over the rocks. Arnold made his way through relatively unscathed, save for what looked like a molasses stain on his boot. Holed up in the corner was the large, beastly man he required. The sight of him turned his stomach.

“Mr. Robert Rogers, I presume?”

Rogers looked up at him, his slashed eye staying unnervingly still. He still had a pint of ale to his lips, and Arnold bit back the desire to vomit as he watched most of it slip past his beard and onto the front of his shirt. His sip ended with a resounding “ _Ah_ ”.

“ _Aye_ , that’s me. I don't need tellin’ who you are, neither. Not unless you want a red shirt to go with that coat.” A trickle of fear went down Arnold’s spine, and he scanned the room before taking his seat.

“So!” Rogers exclaimed, waving over a tavern wench for another ale. “What brings _Glory Almighty_ to humble ol’ Demar’s, hm? If it's Queens Rangers you need, I’m afraid you're out of luck--but not out of service.”

Arnold swallowed his pride, and leaned close across the table. “I’m in need of a man who can take back what’s rightfully mine.”

Rogers laughed heartily, taking a new stein of ale from the wench, and sending her off with a crass slap on the backside. “You don't have anythin’, boy, rightful or otherwise. You're a yellow bellied turn coat.”

Arnold clenched his teeth, contemplating throttling the man right here, but he _needed_ this foul beast. He couldn't do this alone.

“I have money--”

“Oh, yes, how could we all forget. I s’pose you’ll be payin’ in copies of your court martial--my apologies-- _pardoned_ court martial.”

Arnold slammed a small purse on the table, sending ale spilling over the top of Rogers’ rattled stein. The man let out an ungodly grunt, sopping up the mess with his sleeve.

“I _have_ payment. I'm sure you’d respect a man who puts his _own_ personal fortune down, no matter the colors he wears. We’re the same, you and I”

Rogers scoffed. “ ‘ _Fraid not_. Oh it's true, the coin is temptin’. Lots o’ wine and quim can be had from a purse like that. But you and I? A deal with me is _binding_. You pay, I go. Simple as that. _You_ , you great lout, are a coward with an askin’ price. Ol Georgie couldn't pay up, and you tipped like a tree--- _oh the sound that made”_

Arnold snatched the purse off the table, and braced his bad leg to storm out of that wretched piss hole. “ _Fine_. I only came to you because of your prior history, but I can ask elsewhere. Plenty of hired men can take down Benjamin Tallmadge.”

“ _Tallmadge_?”

Rogers’ face lit up, a wide grin cracking his scraggly features. He was enjoying this.

“I've got plenty of time for _Benjamin Tallmadge”_

Arnold settled back into his chair, proud that Rogers took an interest in his cause. “You and a Tallmadge are quite the adversaries. Killed one of your rangers a few years back, eh?” The look on Rogers’ face told Arnold he had hit a nerve.

“Aye. Slippery runt opened one of my men’s throats. Couldn't die like a soldier. Damn him and the bitch who whelped him.”

Arnold grinned smugly. “My thoughts exactly. You can be a soldier, and fight honorably, or you could stoop…” Rogers paused, glaring at him over the brim of the stein. “He’s a _spy_ , Rogers.”

It seemed Arnold pushed all the right buttons. Rogers straightened up in his chair, the flimsy thing creaking beneath him ominously.

“£500. That's my price.”

“£500?! It's one _boy_ , not a battalion. You’ll do it for £100.”

Rogers snickered. “One _boy_ , aye. One boy in the thicke of Continental forces, with beady eyes on us here in York City. You came to me, Arnold. That's the price you pay per head.”

Arnold gritted his teeth. “I need him _alive_.” As much as he wished to have Tallmadge’s body dumped on his doorstep, he had business to attend to. Wars to win. Figureheads to crush beneath his heel.

“That won't be easy. _Pretty_ as he may be, Tallmadge is a hellion. Drag him to the gates, he draws blood-- buckets o’ it. Then, quick as a whip, he’s back to the shadows.”

“Except I know where to turn on the light. You’d need not do more than to burn the wick at Washington’s bedside to find him.”

Arnold regretted those words.

“£700.”

“£600!”

“£700, and Georgie has his Molly snatched with none the wiser. Not a hair on his auburn head scathed.”

A hiss escaped Arnold’s lips. He gave himself away. He should have pointed the man towards camp, and let Rogers figure out their filthy affair for himself. This was burning a hole in his pocket. Still, there was not a man more feared than Rogers. If anyone could stroll leisurely into Washington’s _own tent_ …

“Deal.” He spat bitterly. “Make it so.”

Rogers held out a meaty hand, silently asking for the purse Arnold brought. He slapped it into his palm, huffing audibly. Rogers clicked his tongue.

“Don't kick yourself over this, lad. You're not the only bloody back to make a crooked deal at the Demar’s. Many o’ man’s fate has been decided next to wrenching drunkards. As for Major Tallmadge, his will be decided by yerself. _Alive_ , as per our _gentleman’s agreement._ Though, be forewarned-- _alive_ doesn't mean _in one piece.”_

Arnold sneered, the idea of Ben arriving considerably less pretty stirring up venomous pleasure. “Cripple him if you must. Just bring him here, and watch Washington crumble.”

Another hearty round of laughter escaped Rogers, who raised his empty stein in camaraderie. “Then let’s rejoice. To the end of this war, to Georgie’s empty bed, and young Tallmadge’s free rolling head.”

“ _Cheers_ ”

 

 

 

 


	2. Gone

Ben’s eyes fluttered open as the first signs of dawn filtered through the slat in the tent. All was quiet and still, save for the even breathing next to him; _George_. Ben admired the man. Hair down (a rarity) framing his face in soft auburn waves, expression slackened into blissful repose, the rise and fall of his bared chest. Ben pressed his nose up into the juncture of George’s neck, eliciting a small hum.

“I’ve got rounds. I’ll be back before you know I'm gone.”

George let out a grunt, displeased with Ben’s leaving, but too heavy with sleep to put up a proper protest. A quick kiss on the cheek returned a smile to his face, and it was back to dreamland.

Ben sighed at the sight. Since Benedict’s turning, George hardly slept a full night in weeks. It took a great deal of coaxing to get him to relax, fully and completely, until he was rendered into a quivering pile of mush--unable to fight off the heavy pull of sleep. ‘ _Sleep long and deep_ ’ Ben wished, shivering as he dressed.

The cold light of dawn creeped over the trees, sending long shadows over the days old snowfall around the camp. It's picturesque winterscape was trampled by boots and carts, gouging trenches into the hardening snow banks. Ben’s boots crunched as he made his way from the tent. This was the twilight hour, where only few officers around camp roused-- leaving him free to come and go from Washington’s tent as he pleased.

The urge to rejoin George in the bed drove him to complete his tasks quickly. He collected his overnight reports, deposited them in his work tent, made sure the outpost was in well guarded. He then swung back around to the cook’s tent. The ladies there knew him as an early riser, and always set out a few items for him.

“Major Tallmadge, good morning.” One buxom woman said, handing him a small satchel. “It's not much, we’re down to apples and bread.” Ben smiled, taking the bag from her.

“That's plenty, thank you. I’ll put in a word to General Washington about new rations.”

“Bless you, Major. Lord knows it's stone soup until spring.”

Ben laughed. “I’ll donate my apple cores for the broth, then.”

The trot back broke a sweat under his woolen uniform, having to high step over mound after mound of iced over snow. Though light was coming fast, Washington’s side of the camp was still masked in hazy darkness. He was within sight of the tent when his boot fell through the cracked surface of the ice---into warm slush.

“Wha--”

 _Blood_. A deep red stain of it, not 100 feet from where George slept. It bloomed through the snow, trailing off like petals fallen from a bouquet. Ben put a hand on his hilt, following the gruesome path to find its source. It circled around the back of Washington’s tent, and stopped beneath a mound of pink and grey slush. Someone was _hurt_ under there.

Ben rushed forward, ignoring the biting cold as he cleared the slurry off the man. His hands stopped as he tore past a chunk of ice, and his fingers hit the open throat of a young soldier. Ben’s breath caught in his chest. ‘ _The guard---’_ He went to rise off his knees to sound an alarm, but something cold and steely against his neck stopped him.

“I wouldn't be runnin’ my mouth if I were you, _boy_.”

Ben froze. It couldn't be. It had been so long…but here he was. _Robert Rogers._

“Would ye lookit that? Speechless as a maiden on her weddin’ night.” Rogers placed a meaty hand on Ben’s shoulder, digging his thick fingers in. “You've made lots o’ enemies, pup. Bitten more than the kennel master can excuse. They sent _me_ to put you down.”

Ben clenched his jaw, the temptation to cry out overwhelming. It was too risky. He’d be dead before the words left his throat. Besides, if Rogers wanted him dead, he’d already be under the slush.  
He kept his eyes trained on the back of Washington’s tent. Let Rogers take him, but far--- away from George.

Rogers laughed, the stench of his breath wafting over Ben’s shoulder. “ _Easy boy_ , we’ve got a few errands to run before the real fun begins. Let’s go visit daddy, eh?”

Rogers pinched Ben’s jaw open, stuffing a putrid rag into his mouth. He gagged as the man forced him to his feet. “No noise, boy. Quiet as a mouse.”

Pushing forward, Rogers quickly circled him to the front of the tent, sunlight still far from the swaying flaps. Ben was shoved inside, a grip like a vice pinning his hands behind him. Rogers took a good look around the tent, grinning. “So this is where the magic happens, hm?” He whispered. The hair on the back of Ben’s neck pricked up as Rogers turned his attention to George.

“The big man himself.”

George was still sound asleep, bed linens tangled at the waist. It was a sight that normally made Ben weak in the knees. Now it terrified him; he was so vulnerable. ‘ _Don't hurt him, please don't hurt him’._

Rogers produced a pistol, releasing his grip on Ben. He placed one finger to his lips, and tapped the side of Ben’s face with the barrel. “Don't do anything rash. I have a jumpy trigger finger.”

His boots were near silent as he crossed the room, pistol pointed at Ben’s head. Ben’s heart quickened at the sight of a long hunting blade in Rogers’ other hand. Instinctively, Ben lurched forward. The click of the hammer stopped him.  
Ben returned to attention, trembling.

Rogers smiled, pleased with Ben’s decision. He took the hunting knife and laid it low, just above George’s throat. Ben shook his head, tears pricking his eyes.

“ _No?”_ Rogers mouthed silently.

Ben shook his head, shoulders heaving.

“ _No, ‘yes’ ?_ ”

The knife moved short and quick across George’s throat, and Ben let out a strangled cry into the gag. Rogers shook with silent laughter, brandishing the lock of hair he cut off of George. No blood. He was alive. Ben fell to his knees, sobs wracking his body. He hardly noticed Rogers slip something beneath George’s pillow before being ripped off his knees.

Rogers pressed close to him, growling in his ear. “I wasn't _paid_ for him,boy, quit your whimpering. We best be off. You're expected in York City”

‘ _Arnold_ ’. He was to be put at the mercy of Arnold. Part of him wished he had cried out sooner, and taken the blade to the neck-- it would be merciful compared to anything that turncoat had in store for him. At least they'd still recognize him with his throat slit.

The grip returned to Ben’s arm, and he struggled to get one last look at George as he was wrangled from the tent. George, who was sleeping soundly in their bed. George, who would hold him and promise to never leave his side. George, who would wake up to find him bloodied in some unmarked grave. Hot tears clung to his lashes.

  
This would be the last time he would see George--but he thanked God he was alive.

He tried to keep the image of George sleeping blissfully in his head as Rogers forced him towards the tree line.  
\----------------------------------------------  
George awoke gradually, his senses turning on one by one. First came the sound of birds, of carts rattling and boots crunching. Then the smell of stewed apples, and lingering cologne. By the time George’s eyes began to crack open, he had the taste of apples on his tongue, and a rumble in his stomach.

It was peculiar that Ben had not returned from rounds. A quick look at his pocket watch heightened his suspicion. Seven in the morning. Ben would have been up for two hours now, plenty of time to finish his duties and return. He sat up, and a faint tickling sensation ran down his chest.

‘ _This is...hair?’_

He bolted off the bed, rushing to the mirror. A chunk had been sheared off the end near his throat. The remnants were scattered over him, his sheets, his _pillow_. George spied a clump sticking out from under the down pillow. He cautiously stuck a hand beneath, feeling smooth paper. A letter. He ripped it open hastily.

_General Washington,  
I hope this letter finds you in good health, as we both work towards ending this war. I have been patient, tolerating your disinterest in my plight with Congress, and turning a blind eye to your garish predilections. I cannot, however, tolerate the way you slander my name throughout the colonies; raking it through the mud in an attempt to conceal your own failures. Therefore, I have taken the initiative to end this damnable war. Let those most loyal to you pay the price for worshipping a false idol. They will know what you are soon enough._

_~Benedict Arnold_

The color drained from George’s face. Someone was _here_ , in his own tent. Close enough to slip this beneath him. Close enough to draw a razor across him. Where was _Ben_? His eyes searched the page, trying to determine Arnold’s game. Would he expose him? Murder Ben?

“General Washington!”

Billy Lee came bounding into the tent, wide with terror. He stopped short at the sight of George. “My apologies, General, I did not mean to barge in on you undressed---it's just---”

George put the letter down on the table, not caring for his own nakedness, but reached for his breeches. He pulled them on quickly. “Where is Major Tallmadge? Has he returned from rounds?”

Billy Lee shook his head frantically. “ _Blood_ , sir. Outside your tent. I ran in because I wasn't sure if it was you”

George ran out of the tent, his bare feet stinging in the snow. There was a great bloom of blood seeping in the softened snow. ‘ _Benjamin, oh dear God’._ He followed the trail, not caring if he attracted attention from passing soldiers. He needed to make sure.

The mound behind his tent almost sent him to his knees. He scrambled to the pink mass, eyes laying sight on the visceral open throat. “No!” He cried, frantic hands wiping away the slurry from the corpse’s face.

“It's not him…”

The words were soft, and George felt deep sorrow for the poor guard lying beneath the snow. The dread set in, setting every nerve on fire. Billy Lee rushed to his side.

“Your Excellency! We have to get you inside, it's not safe--you're not _dressed_ -"

“Find Tallmadge.”

“Sir?”

George’s jaw clenched as tears stung his eyes. His bare hands and feet were numb, trembling against his will. He would not let this happen. He would not let anyone touch Ben---harm him. Whoever took him would have to face George. And God help him.

“ _Find Tallmadge, dammit!”_

 

 

 


	3. Fever wrought

George gnawed at the callous on the side of his thumb in a failed attempt to peel away some of his anxiety. He had not raised an alarm--nor would he. No one could know what had happened here. That a man had snuck into his tent while he lay sleeping, and almost ended this war. It would shake the men, it would expose his weakness…

“Your Excellency, you wished to see me? We came as soon as we received word.” George didn't look up from his lap, only pausing to respond after he had torn away a bit of roughened skin.

“Come in, Alexander...something’s happened.”

Alex crossed the tent, kneeling down in front of him to meet his gaze. Lines of worry creased Alex’s youthful face-- a sore reminder that this war was fought by _children_. God, Ben was just a _boy,_ how could he let this happen to him?

“Sir, what's happened to you?” Alex whispered, his keen eye drawn to the lobbed off segment of hair framing George’s face. Though Billy Lee had coaxed him inside, and dressed him, he could not smooth back the mutilated curl. It fell from his braid, tickling his cheek as a phantom hand from his assassin.

The note was still in George’s hand, and Alex eased it out of his pinched fingers, careful not to rip it. It only took a moment for Alex to speed through the threats.

“This is outrageous. Sir, I would not let this shake you. Our love for you is unwavering. A good night’s sleep will smoothe this from your conscious. Our sweet Benjamin will look into what fiend sold his honor to deliver this letter.” Alex glanced around the tent.

“Where is Benjamin?”

George clenched his jaw, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Alex looked up at him from the floor, terror starting to fill his gaze.

“ _Where is Benjamin?”_

George felt Alex’s hand dig into his knee, all that pent up juvenile rage waiting to boil over--to fight on a moment’s notice. He could not manage to look him in the eye as the word slipped past his lips.

“ _Gone_ ”

Another set of boots entered the tent as Alex let out a short cry of anger.

“My dear Alex, what has happened?!”

George bit down on his thumb. This was the alarm. He couldn't handle the noise. The panic. He was both numb and in turmoil. But now he needed to be in charge, as those closest to him had a penchant for chaos...and revenge.

“Arnold has _taken_ him. He's taken Ben.” Alex spat, his words like venom hit the floor by Gilbert’s boot. Panic overcame him as well, dropping to his knees in front of George, seizing his lapels, wrought with terror.

“It cannot be! How did they get here? Who---” Gilbert’s gaze was drawn to the rogue curl. “Who took a razor to you?” His words were slow, colored by fear and his lingering accent.

All George could feel was shame, hot and rising uncontrollably throughout his body. He had let this happen to Ben. He was careless. He shouldn't have slept so deeply...woken when Ben had and kept a close eye on him. Like he's been doing for _weeks_. His most sleepless nights came when they were all together; Ben laughing on the floor with Alex and Gilbert, whilst he sat on the bed, eyes straining to keep open. They were his family, Ben the closest of all. And he let him fall into dangerous hands without a fight.

George put a steady hand on Gilbert, peeling the boy from his lapels. “Alexander...how long could you pretend I am still in camp?” Alex’s balled his fists.

“NO. NO----”

“How. Long.”

Alex ran a shaky hand through his hair, angry tears glossing over his eyes. He was thinking it out--- all the routes, the possibilities, the risks--- cross checking them with their plan thus far. What exposed them. What concealed them.

“Three days. Four tops, but---”

George rose from his chair, that was all he needed to know. “I'm going after him.” Alex clutched his legs, looking more like a petulant child than an aide-de-camp.

“You've gone _mad_. We cannot lose you. Gilbert and I will go---”

“No, I need you here at camp. My eyes and ears. I’ll ride out immediately.”

Gilbert rose to meet him, his face hard set with determination. “No. We need to cover your tracks. You will go at nightfall.” He turned to open the trunk at the foot of George’s cot. “We will take you to see Monsieur Evans. His manor is close, and he is sympathetic to our cause.”

Alex scrambled to his feet, not having any of this. “Gilbert, NO! Do not humor this madness.”

“Your Excellency will feign illness, some affliction brought on by stress and lack of a good hearty meal. No one would dare disturb you as you recovered, save for the two trustees who serve as your figurehead.” Gilbert said, filling a small tin cup with water from the basin.

George nodded, ignoring Alex’s incessant looks of protest.He had hoped to ride out immediately, but Gilbert was right. It was too obvious. Too many heads would turn, and word would spread that he had fled camp. He tried to smooth back the lop sided curl, exhaling sharply.

“Make it so. Leave my horse here, and acquire one just as fast, as well as some plainer clothes. As for now, I should just...succumb to fever--”

George stopped as the contents of Gilbert’s cup were tossed in his face, soaking him. He clenched his teeth as the water ran down his face, and seeped through his jacket.

“Was that... _really necessary_ ”

Gilbert smiled, sweet and mischievous. “Why of course, if you want the flush to look authentic. Alex?”

George cried out as Alex’s hand came down hard across his face.  
\----------------------------------------------  
They had marched only an hour from camp when Rogers twisted his arm, signaling a hard stop. He forced Ben to his knees, grunting more than commanding.

“Alright, boy, those buff and blues have done enough. Here.” A bundle of cloth was thrown to the ground in front of him. “Put ‘em on before they sog. And be quick about it. I don't need a show”

Ben scrunched his nose in disgust. “Absolutely not.” He spat. He would not be removing this uniform. Rogers crouched down, meeting Ben’s defiant gaze.

“Listen, _your highness_ , this is non-negotiable. That uniform draws too much attention. So we can do this one of two ways. You wear what I've given you, _or_ , I drag you naked as the day you were born til we reach York City. And I can assure you, the latter will leave you with little that Ol Georgie finds interesting. So I’ll say it again; put them on. And be thankful you've been given a pair that _fits_ , unlike this ghastly ensemble.”

Ben remained still. “Then I guess you'll just have to drag me.” He studied Rogers’ face, noting the momentary look of conflict. Rogers needed him on his feet in order to deliver him quickly. He wouldn't make him walk bare through the snow. It would slow them, or kill him. Rogers wouldn't get paid if he didn't drop Ben off alive.

Rogers sighed dramatically, pulling out the same hunting knife he used to threaten George.

“Now don't say I didn't warn you, boy”

The first thing Ben felt was a heavy boot to the chest, knocking the wind from him. He gasped like a beached fish, cold air searing his lungs so painfully he thought they were on fire. His head collided with a rock sticking up out of the icy forest floor, doubling his vision so that there were two hellish beasts looming over him. Two merging knives crudely shearing off his uniform, accompanied by hissing through bared teeth.

“I _told_ Arnold you’d be a hassle.” Fabric ripping. “But no. _Alive_ , he says. So I've got to live with your insolent mouth until he stuffs it.” Ben’s head was swimming, eyes struggling to focus on which Rogers was real. Blue and buff shreds were shorn of in great bolts, and the bite of steel nicked his collarbone as the knife exposed bare flesh. Goose pimpled and shivering, Ben had only one warmth left. His boots.

“You can keep those. Terrain is going to get bumpy, and I'd prefer not to carry your bare arse up and over like a mule. Not enough coin to make me do that.”

Ben’s torn shirtsleeve was used to secure his wrists, and once again he was on his feet. His knees knocked together in the cold. Blood dribbled from shallow cuts where Rogers had miscalculated the density of his uniform. They spotted the splintered frost like crushed berries.

“I give it, oh, ten...fifteen minutes at most before you’re blubbering fat tears and accepting my original offer. March, boy.”

The wind whipped up, sending chunks of ice against his flesh, reddening with cold. It was brutal, stabbing like knives from all angles. Ben ground his teeth. Fifteen minutes. Ha.

He lasted the whole hour.

In fact, he would have gone for longer, had it not been for Rogers’ overwhelming discomfort. Eyes ahead, back straight, he was increasingly on edge. If there's nothing more suspicious than leading around a man in a continental uniform, it's leading around a man stark naked. He took his opportunity to rescind his offer when Ben tripped over a hidden root, and tumbled to his knees.

“That’ll be the cold, boy. I'm impressed. However, you're redder than a beet.” Ben caught the bundle of clothes, twisting his bound wrists awkwardly to do so. “Put them on. Don't be a hero, though _hero_ is not really the word I’d use.”

Ben’s ligatures were cut, and he scrambled off the ground to put on his new clothes. A dingy shirt that used to be white, olive jacket riddled with tears, and brown breeches which, surprisingly, did fit. The last piece was a ratty old scarf, it's red fabric fraying at the ends.

“Let's get a move on. Lots o’ ground, little time. Your wrists, boy.”

Ben pulled a sour face as his wrists were seized and bound again. He needed a way out. He needed some way to signal that he was here. Rogers pulled at his bindings like a kennel master reigned in a wild dog, willing him abruptly forward.

Ben staggered behind, still not quite recovered from the cold. His fingers fiddled at the frayed edge of the scarf, absently mindedly pulling free some of it. He looked down at his hands. Pinched within his fingers, _red threads_.

He smiled, and let them flutter to the ground.

 

 

 

 


	4. Broken

His face was still searing from the unbridled rage slapped across his cheeks as Alex and Gilbert smuggled him to Monsieur Evans’ Manor. As predicted, the man was humbled by George’s presence, and permitted him a room set with a roaring fire. Before the flames, George peeled off the added layers of wool Gilbert has swaddled him in. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat; at this rate he really would catch fever before heading to save Ben.

Waiting for nightfall was torturous. Alex slipped reports to him, brought food to him, but inevitably kept his distance. George surmised he was still upset about his leaving, or upset that he let Ben get taken. Gilbert was much more accommodating. He scoured the grounds around Monsieur Evans’ estate, acquired a fast horse and plain clothes, and spent the dwindling hours talking to him. George was thankful for that. The silence would have killed him, or compelled him to leave without proper rations.

As dusk crept along the wooded horizon, George sank back into the hot tub that had been set out for him. Gilbert had coaxed him in, mumbling something about “ _They believe you to be ill. Soak your tension before you ride.”_ The heat of the tub was not enough to thaw the cold fear in his gut. It churned mercilessly, pushing George’s will to the limit. He scanned his mind for routes, for likely scenarios, for...unfortunate news. As smart as waiting had been, he also feared it had shaved away precious time; Ben could already be dead.

The room was deathly silent. Gilbert’s conversation had teetered off when the tub arrived, with Alex soon after-- still sour. Had they not been so close, George might have felt a tinge of embarrassment. Yet the full weight of their situation was sinking in, and George didn't mind the company while he soaked.

And then came a sob.

Small, stifled, but there. George cocked his head towards the sound; _Alex_. Alex, with his face in his hands, sobbing quietly--palms upturned to catch his sorrows. And then another round of sniffling, this time from Gilbert, his pale cheeks already wet with tears.

“My dear boys…”

His words triggered something in them, and the cries crescendoed woefully. It broke George’s heart. Arnold’s intended mission seemed to be working. His tiny family was fractured. George removed a hand from the warmth of the bath, out stretching it towards the grieving pair.

“Do not waste tears on this, little ones. Benjamin will be home in three days time.”

Alex had scrambled across the room to take George’s hand, kneeling next to the tub to press it against his cheek. “And _you_? What will become of us if you do not return home?” George fought back tears. He had planned for this. He’d give Alexander a place in the field, men to command. He’d ensure they got their final desires, despite his selfish need to keep them close in life. But those words seemed...unsavory. Alex was not asking for command, or further instructions. He was asking for _comfort_. It had not occurred to him that these two were grieving the loss of Benjamin, as well as what may be their last night with _him_.

“I will return.”

Gilbert passed silently over to the tub, kneeling next to Alex. George offered his other hand to him as well, running a thumb over his tear stained cheek. They were so tiny compared to his palm, cradling their head against it like babes. His throat tightened, and tears hanging from his lashes.

“ _I’m so sorry._ ”

His voice wavered painfully. He had failed these two. He had failed Benjamin. He could have very well lost this war. There was no way he could hide that. Gilbert rubbed his cheek into George’s hand.

“I’m afraid...it's time to depart.”

It felt like an execution. He was dressed somberly, in dark greys and blacks. His mare was tied to a fence post, and Alex handed him an assortment of items in a brown satchel.

“Two pistols, and their charges. You can't bring your sword, but here’s a hunting knife. Never, _ever_ let it leave your side. I searched camp. There are two sets of prints that lead in a northeasterly direction from the back of your tent. Head down Beckett Road, then onto the back roads.”

George listened patiently, fiddling with a small enclosed lantern and candle stubs. He estimated another hour of visible light before he would need to ignite anything.

“Sir?”

George felt a hand tug at his cloak, preventing him from mounting. He removed his foot from the stirrups, and faced Alex. The boy looked terrified, as did Gilbert, who had fallen silent.

That’s right, this wasn't a usual farewell.

“Alexander. You are one of the brightest young men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You will do well, with or without me.” George turned to Gilbert, his slight frame quaking.

“Gilbert. You cannot fathom the undying respect and admiration I have for you. Keep that flame in your heart, son.”

And with that George mounted, unable to keep up the charade going without falling to pieces. He swallowed the surge of grief, and pushed his tenderness aside. “Three days time.” He clipped, digging his heel in to start his mare. “Set out fresh clothes for Benjamin.”  
\----------------------------------------------  
Night was falling fast, and Ben had laid a neat trail of red for the majority of the day. The method was simple; a thread would be dropped in front of his staggering feet, then--under the guise of fatigue-- he would quickly double step on the thread. Once, to pack it into the ice, safe from the wind. Twice, to ensure the thread was not stuck to the wet sole of his boot. It had served him well this far, and in the waning light of dusk, Ben felt he best add a triple step to his process.

Rogers lumbered on ahead, yanking his lead at will. Ben smirked. Though Rogers thought this cruel, and degrading, he was playing into Ben’s plan perfectly. No one would question a man’s staggering steps whilst he’s chained and dragged like a hellhound.

“Keep up, boy. Dark is near. Wouldn't want the wolves to get ye.”

Ben pulled a few more threads, stomping them into the crust of snow. His heart skipped a beat as Roger’s turned unexpectedly, glowering. “Camp needs to be set soon. Can I trust you ‘round a fire? Or shall I burn those delicate hands for safe measure.”

Ben pulled a look of horror, though he felt nothing from the threat. His hour of exposure had been quite enough to convince Rogers he had been broken in. That the stubbornness was snuffed out by embarrassment and brutal cold. He planned on letting him keep that idea. Ben swallowed thickly, curling his shoulders forward ever so slightly to shrink himself.

“N-no, sir. I’ll be good.”

Rogers paused, then laughed heartily. “I’ll hand it to you,lad. I can see why Georgie broke you in. You’ll bend anyway the wind blows, with the right persuasion.” Ben closed his eyes, trying not to let that defiant anger bubble to the surface. He needed to be complacent. Completely broken.

As luck would have it, a few tears came to his aid, sticking to his lashes in fat wet globs. Rogers let out an exaggerated sigh. “I've no patience for blubbering. Keep it quiet or I’ll take those baby blues from you. A pair like that must woo tavern wenches left and right, though its _wasted_ on you, boy”

A sharp yank on Ben’s ligature sent him hurtling forward, falling face first into the ice. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He spit it out, watching it spray across the ground in front of him. The lip was split.

“Look what you’ve done now, you gangly _shit_.” He spat, wrenching the lead up, twisting Ben’s wrists up over his head. A strangled cry ripped through his throat, his left arm pulled to the point of breaking. The pain was blinding.

“The faster you're on your feet, the quicker the pullin’ stops. Hurry now, shoulders only go so far.”

The ordeal to regain footing was brutal. The snow beneath Ben had softened from his heat, ever so slightly, so that the toe of his boot would shoot out from under him as he applied pressure. His chin collided with the ground as his legs flew in different directions. Rogers laughed, twisting his arm ever upward.

“You can do it, lad! Get those stumps movin’!” He jeered.

Cold bit into his knees, the numbing sensation spreading to his toes. Panic gripped him. ‘ _Just get up! Get up_!’ But his feet were rendered useless. Only the sounds of staggered breathing and crying escaped him as he flailed pathetically on the forest floor-- his suspended arms turning him into a tangled marionette.

His puppet master had grown tired of his performance. Rogers gripped the ligatures at his wrist, and with one great hand heaved Ben to his feet. The tears on Ben’s face were real this time. They stung his cheeks as the wind blew hard across him.

“It's a sorry fact that someone such as yourself became a major. If it were up to me, I’d shoot you dead upon enlisting. Save us all the trouble.”

Rogers turned, heading off between the long stretching shadows of bare trees. Ben glanced down, the patch of earth beneath him a sprawling mess. Blood, mud, slush, cross hatched with finger rakes and boot trenches. An awful, gut wrenching sight. His bindings began to pull, and Ben was led away from the scene.

He pulled a few more threads, triple stepping them into the snow. The trail moves forward.  
\----------------------------------------------  
The wine had soured, much to Arnold’s dismay. His lips had barely accepted the red liquid when the sharp scent of vinegar flooded his senses. He spat it into his napkin ruefully.

“ _Swill_!”

A more even man would have set the wine aside, but Arnold was no such man. He hurtled the crystalline glass across the long oak table, splattering crimson and shattered glass over the ivory cloth.

“ABIGAIL!”

The woman crept from around the corner, head bowed solemnly. “Yes, sir. Was it not to your liking?”

Arnold’s initial burst of anger had subsided, the shattering glass quelling some of his frustration. Yet the bitter taste in his mouth remain. It disgusted him.

“When Major Andre resided here, did you put spoiled food on this table?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why do you insist on setting out turned wine?”

He felt slighted, irrefutably so. His status as a turncoat did not escape him. His fellow officers whispered behind their hands. His house and servants belonged to the man whose death ensured his payment. Even seedy characters such as _Rogers_ refused to deal with him without the proper price. This sour wine was a message. A sign of the unwelcome and dissatisfaction towards him. And he would not tolerate it.

“Abigail, I am _sorry_ that Major Andre suffered so. I am sorry if you thought that was the end of your servitude, but the fact remains-- I am an officer in His Majesty’s royal Army. I am to be treated with _respect_. I should not have to ask this _in my own home_.”

Abigail nodded, her face blank and controlled. It irked him, not being able to see her thoughts on her face. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “I apologize, sir. I will double check all of the casks to ensure this won't happen again. There's also a letter for you. I’ll leave it in the study, for you to read at your leisure.”

Arnold rose from the table, nose crinkling at the sight of the mess. “I’ll take it now. And clear this mess.”

“Yes sir.”

The letter had come from the army’s treasurer, to whom he had written about an advance of £600 for a specialty mission. He tore it open, eager for good news.

_To a Sir Benedict Arnold,_

Arnold sneered at the absence of his _rank_.

_His Majesty’s Royal Army cannot fund your conquest. You have provided little to no information on the task. Your argument that the absence of details is due to the sensitive nature of your mission does not give us adequate reason to support you. Any and all sensitive issues that require funding must be backed by several letters from correspondents with higher standing. We are sorry to inconvenience you---_

Arnold crushed the paper in his fists. “Cheap _bastards_!”

They had squandered precious time, and his limited coin. The £100 deposit he had given Rogers at Demar's was the little he could afford to part with. He had hoped the army would value his input, and let him carry on as he saw fit. After all, that's _why_ he turned. His _value_ was unmatched. By God, he was delivering them George’s precious bed warmer on a silver platter. Take Benjamin Tallmadge to York City, and soon George would be banging at the gates with his breeches undone.

The letter was tossed angrily into the fire. He was _seething_. The price Rogers had demanded was too steep. He could barely scrimp another £100, let alone 6. There was only one thing left to be done.

“Abigail!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell the men to prepare my horse. I have some business to attend to.”  
\----------------------------------------------  
Darkness is an awe inspiring thing. It creeps slowly as the day grows long, then swallows the world all at once. Deep in the woods, darkness is the absence of people. The presence of wild things. It's the crunch of your own boots mingled with the rustling of trees, or of some phantom tracing your steps. It's a hand on the grip of your knife, poised in terror. It's knowing no one can hear you scream, except the ones who most want it.

And it's here, in darkness, that a little candle stick lights a small patch of ground. Flickering in and out of existence like hope, illuminating the traces of something trembling in the wind.

Red thread.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. One Shot

Rest would not come easy. Backed up against the base of a tree, secured tight by thick ropes, Ben could only shimmy a hair at a time to relieve the jabbing pain from the knots in the tree. Rogers had drifted off, propped up against the log by the campfire. This _should_ be the opportune time to escape--but nothing was that simple.

Rogers was a light sleeper. As soon as the snores would rise from his beast like body, Ben would wriggle and try to loosen his bonds. The first time it happened, the toe of Ben’s boot scuffed the ground a little too roughly, and Rogers was up. The second time, it was a twig snap from some animal lurking just beyond their halo of light. The third and fourth time was the scrap of bark as he tried to find a more comfortable position.

When Ben’s eyelids did start to heavy, it was all he could do to lean forward towards the fire, trying to bask in any warmth that the icy wind hadn't whipped away. His hurt shoulder throbbed mercilessly, but he feared he would freeze if he leaned back into the bark. Finally, the comforting warmth of sleep took him, drifting ever so carefully into a deep, exhaustive slumber.  
\------  
The little red thread trembled in the snow, packed deep into a bootprint that pointed deep into the forest. George carefully stepped in, treading over roots and underbrush to follow the steps. The lantern was held close to the snow, with George almost on his knees to see the tracks in the darkness. Afraid to leave his horse reigned, he stepped slowly beside it, the whole ordeal becoming more of a crawl than a walk.

Twilight had dissipated, leaving only the inky black cover of night. It swallowed George whole, and threatened to snuff out the little candle stub quivering inside the lantern. The flame flickered dangerously, illuminating the tiny scraps of red scattered through the snow.’ _Benjamin had to have gone this way’_

He tugged the reins to his mare, urging the horse forward into the darkness, yet it did not wish to hurry its cautious pace.

“Easy, easy…” He whispered, much more for himself than for his horse. Out here he was exposed; moon cast shadows stretched like hoards of men, their spindly fingers grasping at his boots. Wide eyes of hidden creatures caught his light, glinting so quickly that George had to double take to be sure they were not demons. It was all strange and twisted, covered in a thick crusty blanket of white that crunched horribly loud. He began to fear that if Rogers had hunkered down for the night, he would hear him approaching...and react violently.

A loud _SNAP_ broke out in front of him. George’s horse spooked, rearing onto her hind legs in terror. His heart leapt into his throat, eyes frantically searching the darkness for assailants as he assisted his horse.

“EASY!”

The horse bucked, one hoof narrowly missing George’s head. He grasped the reins, trying to tug the horse close enough to soothe her with a gentle hand. She seemed to not want to head any further. George was pulled back several feet as she shuffled backwards, nearly tripping over some iced over rocks. The twig snapped again, and George reached for the knife in his belt. Whatever was out there, it was coming closer.

His horse had stopped retreating, but remained uneasy, bumping her nose into George’s shoulder as if to alert him of her discomfort. George stroked the top of her nose, shushing her, while keeping an eye on the spot the last twig had snapped. The bushes trembled, more noise as footsteps approached.

George opted instead to withdraw his pistol. It sounded like more than one man, two at least. He could fire off a shot, subdue the other while he was still in shock. His fingers trembled as the aimed the gun into the darkness. The full weight of his decisions finally reached his shoulders. This was so _foolish_. Him coming out here alone. Alexander was right. He could be _killed_ , he could be captured. In his rage he had played right into Arnold’s hands.

He was _vulnerable_.

There was no knowing who was about to emerge from the underbrush. It could be civilians, red coats, his own men, God it could be _Benjamin_. The doubts began to race in his mind as the countless scenarios played out.

It's two civilians, one shot is fired and he’s slain an innocent person.

It's two red coats, one shot is fired and he somehow subdues the second man...or is killed or captured in the process.

It's two continental soldiers, one shot is fired and he kills his own man. He's outed, with no way to explain his bizarre behavior.

It's Rogers, doubling back, one shot is fired and he hits the man.

One shot is fired and he hits _Benjamin_.

His horse whinnying would have given him away. The men encroaching on his territory would be prepared for a rider. Would they expect General Washington? Would they rejoice at the opportunity to take him out?

The noise of footsteps crescendos, leaving George with a knot in his throat. It takes all his might to steady his nerves, steady his _hand_.

_One shot is fired_

“Oh!” George cries, catching the hind legs of the assailant fleeing. The white tail turned upward, legs knobby and weak. It turned out of the light and back into the thicke of the forest. _A deer_. Just a deer. His hand falls slack to his side, aching at the release of tension. His pistol grip might as well be fused to his palm, for the engraved handle imprints deep into his leather glove. His horse sighs, and neighs softly, no longer uneased. His face feels cold; tears. When did he start crying?

George set the lantern down, deciding here was a good a place as any to end the night. He's sleep light, and continue at daybreak.

Maybe, this time, with less of a hair trigger.  
\----------------------------------------------  
Morning was a kick in the teeth. Ben wished that was figurative.

The boot collided with his face, re-splitting the already swollen lower lip, and filling his mouth with blood. His head spun as he tried to make sense of this sudden assault.

“You think I’m stupid, boy?!” Rogers hissed, hands on his hips like a scorned parent. Ben tried to mask the defiance on his face, replacing it with a shy and complacent expression.

A second kick in the teeth.

“I ain't some barmaid you can bat yer baby blues at, Tallmadge. I know what you've been doin’.” He crouched down, foul breath heaving in great white clouds in front of Ben’s face. Pinched between his fingers, red threads.

“Leavin’ a trail o’ breadcrumbs for yer sweetheart? Plannin’ on tailing it back to Georgie’s bed anytime soon?” He mocked. Ben stared at his feet, at a loss for words due to the overwhelming amount of blood in his mouth.

The ropes securing him to the tree slackened, but his freedom was brief. Rogers lifted him to his feet, wrenching his already badly hurt shoulder with enough force to bring tears.

“ _Stop_!”

It was the first act of defiance he had tried since refusing to strip. It was greeted with a hard shove, sending Ben slamming into the tree trunk. The rough bark bit into the skin of his cheek, leaving its mark as he fell to the ground. The knife was out again, and Ben raised his hands instinctively to defend himself.

“ _STOP THIS_ ”

He knew his cries went unnoticed as Rogers pinned a knee to his chest. The blade was pressed close, under Ben’s nose.

“You’re going to want to stop the squirming of you want to see York City alive.” He turned towards Ben’s leg, the knife shearing open a patch of fabric at the thigh. Ben struggled against the weight crushing his chest.

“What are you doing to me?!”

Rogers’ tone never changed. It was amused, carefree, enjoying every minute of this nightmare. The tip of the blade pressed against his bare skin, drawing forth a droplet of blood.

“Since you've been so kind as to leave a neat little trail, it's my job to _erase it._ ” He turned to look Ben in the eye, his one good eye locked in an unnerving stare. “ _I'm bleeding you out, boy.”_

Panic overtook him, and Ben thrashed underneath Rogers. The knife was removed from his flesh, and poised once again under his nose.

“You want to bleed out like a stuck pig, keep that shite up. I've seen many a man go under the blade. Skilled doctors with steady hands couldn't save Christ himself if he jerked the right way. Some parts can't be _un-knicked.”_

Rogers lay out three tin cups beside his thigh. “So if you need to scream, do it. Use those college smarts.  _Don't. Move.”_

He was _enjoying_ this. Ben watched him smile, teeth bared with unadulterated excitement as he took in Ben’s terror. This was payback. This was the transgression he needed to give Ben his comeuppance. Rogers relished the wide eyes, the trembling body beneath his massive knee. If Arnold hadn't paid him, this would be payment enough.

Ben watched in horror as Rogers pressed the knife to his thigh, the first tin cup poised underneath the blade. His heart was pounding. It was excruciatingly slow. Time wasn't real anymore. Ben was stuck in these few moments of gut wrenching anticipation at the hands of this sadist. His hand clutched the root of the tree, fingernails working at the bark to leave something, anything, that would outlive whatever torture he was about to endure. He carved for strength, a sigil beneath his broken nails.

The knife went in.

Ben screamed, louder than he thought was possible.

Then blackness.

When he came to, it was to the sensation of weightlessness. Bobbing up and down as if carried. Cracking open his eyes, Ben confirmed this was true. His hands and feet were secured, thigh throbbing as he bounced up and down over Rogers’ shoulder.

And then he saw it. What those tin cups were for. Their campsite was painted _red_.

The snow was stained deep crimson in deep gouges. It looked as if a man had been dragged, beaten, and opened up. The shreds of his old uniform fluttered in the wind, stained as badly at the ground. The red scarf he used to signal for help swung from a low tree branch. It was twisted into a crude noose, frayed ends dripping the last of his blood onto the snow below, where the earth had been raised and repacked into a mound.

And now there was only one set of prints leaving camp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Kindred Spirits

The tea had gone cold, but Arnold didn't pay it any mind. Sitting hunched over a writing desk in a dusty old inn, he carefully picked his memories of his night with Rogers; their plan had to be dismantled. He could intercept Rogers, and brave the woods. He could wait by the river crossing where Rogers said he knew a few bargemen who took dirty coin. Either way it would entail him confronting the beastly man and explaining his financial situation...in front of Benjamin, no less. He took a swig from his cup, expression souring at the cold bitter taste. 

 

_ Benjamin Tallmadge. _

 

The name evoked strong emotion for him. It seemed not so long ago that the young man had offered him his own seat beside Washington; standing and bowing as if he were a king. Now there was a man who understood greatness when he saw it. A promising, upstanding individual who Arnold felt embodied the same qualities he prided himself on. Fighting for the cause. The  _ right _ cause, no matter the price tag slapped upon it.  _ Insubordination, indecency. _ These were just words to mask the embarrassment of men who could not admit they were  _ wrong _ . And Benjamin knew that.

 

Why else would he have visited him in that hospital tent, and withstood the stinking rot of his leg? That doe eyed, prim young man who looked at him with awe and wonder. God, it was splendid. For a time, Arnold was quite taken with the boy. Anybody could see he was handsome, all blue eyes and soft blonde hair, pink pouted lips always pressed together in quiet contemplation. His lashes would flutter as you paid him compliment, and he would shift ever so awkwardly as he confessed his gratitude. He was humble, intelligent, too  _ good  _ for this place. 

 

He should have seen the cracks sooner. That admirably kind spirit was malleable. In the right hands, one could mold him into a weapon. The same temper that flickered Ben’s rebellious nature could be used  _ against _ anyone, so long as they captured his heart. The boy serves solely on what is righteous and good--fueled by love of his fellow men. Or  _ man.  _ Oh yes, Arnold should have seen that one coming from a mile away. He was not the only one with his eyes on Benjamin.

 

_ George Washington _ , the great fiend. With him it was all stick and no carrot. Years of service dismissed, and insult after insult laid upon Arnold  even as he battled to stand. The one time he did speak out to Washington,fueled by anger and horrendous pain, he was coldly shut out by the man. A man he was supposed to  _ protect.  _ A friend he thought would support him in his need, not slap some false title to his name. Despite this, Arnold still felt compelled to prove his worth; and still, Washington took from him. He took  _ Benjamin. _

 

The awe Ben paid him was  _ nothing _ compared to the respect he paid Washington. The boy practically threw himself at his feet when they were together. It pained him to watch. It  _ disgusted  _ him. Head of Intelligence...the boy was made a  _ spy. _ Washington had corrupted his honor, and stripped him of being even a soldier.

 

It was no surprise when Arnold passed Washington’s work tent one night to hear the sounds of passion from behind the flaps. He shouldn't have waited to see who it was. He knew the rumors; that Washington was too preoccupied with the comely young men at camp to sire a son at home. He saw the gentle way he handled some of them, hands pressed flat to the small of their back, and dark hungry eyes. But, oh, how he wished he had turned and gone back to his tent--if only to spare his poor soul from seeing Ben stumble out, panting and mussed, lips swollen from  _ some service _ Washington had demanded of him. The poor boy. 

 

Arnold tried his hardest to push the memory aside, but it pushed to the forefront of his mind like a battering ram. No sooner had Washington stuck his sticky hands all over Benjamin did he have him doing his bidding. Arnold was shirked as Ben disappeared for three days, despite being summoned. He was being  _ ignored _ , and now it was being done by men  _ below _ his station. 

 

Any pity he felt for him melted into hot rage as Benjamin took Washington’s side time and time again. His plight fell on deaf ears. Those wide, trusting eyes no longer gazed at him in wonder, but with disdain. And by the end of it, when he had fled, Ben took the shot. That bullet was their last exchange. Arnold had written countless letters, sailing them through back channels for Benjamin in an attempt to get him to see reason. Washington was  _ toxic _ . He took the best men and warped them, turned them into husks and discarded them. For Arnold it was too late, but Ben could have a better life. 

 

None of his letters were returned.

 

He packed his bag quickly, anger fueling him just enough to make it to the tree line of the woods before feeling the throb in his leg. By all accounts he should have taken his horse, but as ungainly as he was, a horse would draw even more attention. He needed to stay out of Rogers’ sight until he had a better grasp on the situation. He needed to shield himself from any men Washington might have sent to retrieve Benjamin. 

 

The trek was merciless. Ice and rocks slowed him considerably. Lack of a more profound sense of direction tripped him up further still. This would work. He was  _ sure _ of it. This path should intercept Rogers’. If Ben had put up a fight, which he definitely  _ would _ , then Rogers would have been forced to camp early. Or drag him. Arnold shuddered at the thought. He shouldn't have asked Rogers. The man  _ lived _ for bloodshed. He was driven to him only because he thought a bargain could be had, swapping personal vendetta  for coin. 

 

Midday came, and Arnold was forced to rest in the crook of some scraggly rocks, his leg and aching mess. The lunch he had packed barely stayed down, and his clothes stuck to him uncomfortably from sweating through the pain. He was just in the middle of surveying the terrain from his seat when a noise sounded, only 100 feet or so from him.

 

Someone was here. 

 

He slumped down, veiling himself with snow covered pine branches. Through the gaps Arnold tracked the source of the sound as it made its way closer. Horse hooves. A ranger? No...too slow… The underbrush shivered, and a man stepped out, face cast to the ground and searching the snow. He led his horse gently by the reigns behind him, crawling at an unbelievably slow pace. Arnold’s breath caught in his chest as the man straightened up, his gait a telltale sign of his true identity.

 

_ Washington. _

 

It couldn't be. There was no way in hell that man would leave camp without a guard. It was reckless, it was foolish. It was something  _ he’d _ been chewed out for before. How hypocritical. He risked the entire war just to putter around in the woods looking for Benjamin. At least when Arnold disobeyed, he knew how to defend himself. Washington was a lost babe out here. Alone and stranded with only a tired old horse. There was nothing keeping Arnold from taking him out right now…

 

“Benjamin?”

 

Arnold froze, one hand ghosting over his pistol as Washington called out for Ben. His voice was cracked, frantic. Whatever he was tracking on the ground had spooked him. Without another word, Washington dashed forward into the brush, all but abandoning his horse. Arnold rose quietly, much too intrigued to flee. Was Benjamin here? If so, that meant he could steal him away when Rogers confronted Washington. He tread lightly, following close behind Washington. 

 

A cry rose up from the trees. It’s sheer terror paralyzing Arnold for a brief second before he ducked behind a tree for cover. The cries continued, crescendoing with the sounds of a man struggling. 

 

“Benjamin! No!”

 

Snow being pummeled and earth being moved.

 

“Dear God, please…” 

 

Sobbing, gasping, and the sound he recognized as Washington’s heavy fist hitting something.

 

“God dammit, no!” 

 

The outburst lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. All too sudden, Washington burst back from the spot hidden in the bushes, blood all over his hands and jacket. He mounted his horse, picking up speed and racing out. Only when the sound of hooves has dulled did Arnold dare to slip out of his hiding place. Curious, he passed over to the spot that had instilled such terror in a man he thought to be made of steel. His eyes widened with terror.

 

_ Blood _

 

Deep and red, staining the snow and the trees. Pieces of uniform fluttering in the breeze, and scratch marks on the ground. A mound of earth covered in pink snow had been disturbed, as if a makeshift grave. Washington had ripped it open to investigate; no dead body, but pieces of blue cloth had been stuffed inside.His chest tightened, the sight of it all seeping in. Dread and regret churned in his stomach.

 

He may have made a huge mistake.


	7. Soften Stone

  
It ended. The trail just… _ended_. Those little vibrant threads that had fluttered in the snow, tagging Ben’s every step, _gone_. George had panicked at the sight of blood in the snow before,deep treads in the ground from a struggle. The blood was spackled as if spat across jagged breaths. Yet there were still red threads.

  
“ _Benjamin_?” he cried, the woods still and silent. It was eerie. Alone out here in the snow he felt like a deer, every slight movement of branches setting off alarms in his mind as if the whole forest had eyes on him. The cold startling feeling of being watched as his lover’s trail disappeared. George darted forward, following the remaining footprints in the snow hoping to find something– _anything_ – that pointed him in the right direction. His blood ran cold as he emerged from the brush. A cry rose from his throat.

  
Blood.

  
An untold amount of it.

  
It had painted the abandoned campsite red; spattered on trees, turning the snow pink, dripping from the bare branches above him. Above him….the red scarf. The source of the thread he had been tracking, its frayed ends dripping even as the soaked scarf stiffened with cold. It’s crude noose was coming undone, leading George’s eye to something even more disturbing. Beneath the swaying scarf lay a mound of freshly moved earth.

  
“Benjamin, no!”

  
His knees hit the ground hard, hands tearing at the mound. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have come all this way to find Benjamin like this, tucked away in some shallow grave like a pauper. The refrozen earth proved hard to move, and George felt his skin tearing against the ice.

  
“Dear god, please…” He couldn’t lose Ben. Not like this. He was supposed to protect that boy. He’s _ruined_ him. He’s _killed_ him. Just by _loving_ him. The grave opened up, and George choked out a sob at the sight. Ben’s colors, his uniform, ripped to pieces. It was a mottled mess of blue and crimson, fluttering helplessly in the breeze. But where was he? Where was his poor boy’s body?

  
George’s fist slammed down on the dirt, grief overcoming him as he looked around at the campsite. If he’s not here, where could he be? A corpse, strewn somewhere where the wolves could get him? His hands traced gouges in the dirt…finger rakes from where Ben had been laid down. Dear god it happened right here…Ben was forced to the ground, his slender fingers tearing up the ground and—

  
“ _What’s this…_ ”

  
The tree root, just at the end of the rakes. George leaned close, spying the markings not made by beast nor knife. It was a sigil, a three pronged mark he had seen before. It resembled a man lifting his arms in prayer.

  
“ _Algiz_ ” A rune…one meaning protection and strength. And only one person would have taught a man like him that. “Benjamin…” Quickly rising to his feet, George swept the campsite. He needed to look past the horror, use his mind well and think of how Roger’s would throw him. Emotional distress was a powerful tool, but it could not mask the single set of prints leaving the site. And these, George observed, were much deeper than the ones leading here. He was a carrying Benjamin. Of course! The blood loss wouldn’t kill him, just weaken him. He probably got caught leaving his trail. But there are always traces in the forest, and George had just found his.He was going to get Benjamin back.

\----------------------------------------------

  
“Will you please stay still? You'll draw too much attention.” Gilbert complained, watching Alex pace to and fro across the tent. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles whitening with every passing second.

“ _How_. How can I possibly remain still? Knowing he’s--”

“ _Sick_? Yes, dear, I know.” Lafayette scolded, reminding Alex of their charade. “His Excellency is on the mend. Only another day or two before he is up and about, spritely as ever.” It was hard to get Alex to calm when he was like this, but Gilbert had been reigning him in all day. Their work tent was a safe enough place to let him fret out the overwhelming anxiety of the day. Alex shot him a sideways look, irritated.

“It’s _cold_ out. He could still get _sicker_ if we do not find a better medicine.” He said, turning to pace back across the tent.

“Medicine should only be given to those who _need it,_ dear Alexander. His Excellency has requested none--”

“And he is a fool!”

Gilbert set his book down with a thump, nerves frayed beyond the point of patience. “Alexander. It has been one night. _One_. We do not have any cause to believe there is something worse than the situation already at hand, so we shall wait until the right time to decide how to further treat our dear General.”

Alex paused, a somber silence falling over him as tears gathered in his eyes. It was strange; so unlike him to pass up having the last word. Gilbert rose from his seat to meet him, pressing his palms to his shoulders; he was trembling. “You...know something, don't you?”

Alex moved silently, producing a paper from his breast pocket. It was burned around the edges, as if thrown into a fire. The script still remained visible, streaky handwriting as if the author was distressed. “I found it in Benjamin’s tent...he must have thrown it in the fire pit and the wind tucked it behind…” Alex whispered. Gilbert read the letter hastily.

_Dear Benjamin,  
I have sent you many letters with well meaning urgency. I have yet to receive any sign that you have read them, or perhaps that you have and cannot write me back. Still, there is not much time left. I have seen this war on both sides, and can see the curtain coming down. You are an honorable young man; one full of courage and bravery the likes of which I have never seen. Had my life turned differently, I would say we were one and the same. And until recent I believed you felt the same._

_Your kindness in my time of need has not been forgotten. I will not let Washington drag you down in infamy as the Continental Army crumbles. French aid will not reach here in time, the seas are too dangerous. You are alone, with a man who would rather martyr you all than relinquish his delusions of grandeur._

_I do not care what he has done to you. What he has promised you, or led you to believe. We are like blood, Benjamin. There is hot, righteous fury in our veins. The thirst to do good ---and see good---on our lips. I cannot let him destroy you as he has done to me. I cannot let another fine man see his name in ruins. Think of Hale, dear Benjamin. Think of Samuel and Sackett. These men were led to slaughter, as are you. Please, do not make yourself the next meal. Write back when it's safe._

_Benedict Arnold._

Gilbert read the letter once more, not quite believing what he was seeing. “This is…” he breathed.

“The man’s _obsessed_ , Gilbert. Who knows how many more of these Benjamin burned. I don't think His Excellency even knows.” He said, tearfully snatching back the burnt letter. Gilbert returned to his seat, hands wringing just as nervously as Alex’s had not minutes before.

“Benjamin would have kept this from him, I’m sure of it.” Gilbert said. “He was always so worried. To think all those nights Washington was awake while we sat around the hearth...Benjamin trying to coax him to sleep. How long has it been since Benjamin slept?”

Alex shook his head, sighing. “I have been pondering the same thing.” A newfound sadness hung in the air, the two quietly fretting in their respective corners. It looked hopelessly bleak. Benjamin gone, his ring of spies leaderless. Caleb would soon return, and discover him missing. Though both of them knew of Caleb, they had no way of knowing how he’d react. Washington gone as well, maybe never to return. And if he did, would he be alone? Or would there be a battered little corpse, wrapped and slung over his tired old mare….

“I'm going, Gilbert.” Alex said, standing and gathering his things. Gilbert picked his book up, fiddling with the ribbon he used as a place holder.

“Good idea. Get some sleep, and tomorrow we shall feel better.”

“No, I’m _going_.” Alex said, his voice trembling and angry. “I'm going after him. I’ll take the town roads, skirt around the woods. If something happens he’ll make for a road.” He started heading toward the flap of the tent.

Gilbert leapt from his seat, throwing himself in front of Alex. “No! We must stay here! You cannot be as foolish as him, even if you are just as stubborn.” Alex moved to push past him, hands gripping the wool of Gilbert’s coat with such ferocity he threatened to lift the man out of the way. “Alexander, no!”

“I’m going! He _needs us_.”

“He needs us _here_!”

With a great sigh, Alex threw up his hands. “And I suppose you think Benjamin is actually going to make it to York City? Despite the fact that Arnold is wrapped in red and clean cut, he’s broke as a beggar. Whoever he sent here to take Benjamin did so at a high price, one I know he _cannot_ pay!”

It made sense, knowing how strained Arnold’s finances were, Gilbert couldn't imagine the British forking over a large amount of coin to a turn coat. Especially with their own war bleeding them dry. “Then why not wait until Ben is in York City before having his captor arrested or killed?” He asked.

“If he admitted he had Benjamin he would have to _trade him back_. Or worse, they’d _hang him._ Maybe he asked for money, maybe not. But this letter...it tells me he plans on getting his hands on Benjamin alive. And if he can't pay in York City, and he can't trade him back---”

“He’s going to the woods. He's going to intercept Washington.”

“There’s going to be two of them out there. Maybe more, and Washington is alone. Who knows if Ben can even fight---”

Gilbert put a finger to Alex’s lips, shushing him. “Then you will go. But you must help me first. Without you, I must pretend to carry out His Exellency’s commands on my own. They will know it is only me, Alexander…”

Alex took Gilbert’s hand in his, turning it over to kiss the palm gently. It wasn't rushed, though Gilbert could see he desperately wanted to take off.

“No one can do carry out his wishes better. I am sure of it. Any softness, any words too tender for such a stern man, will only be attributed to his lovely Marquis, and the kindness he shows at his bedside. You soften stone, Gilbert. You can do this, if only for a few days until I return.” Alex said, throwing in a little wink. Gilbert smacked his side playfully to mask the queasy unease he felt.

“Then let us saddle you up.”

 

 

 


	8. Crawlspace

The bobbing was making him nauseous. Every step felt like a stone thrown into his gut, sloshing and churning until the bile rose and scorched his throat. Could he feel most of his body, Ben would be extremely uncomfortable, but the lack of blood just made everything cold. He felt like a corpse; a deer poached and slung across Rogers’ shoulders, off to be skinned or stuffed. What a nice prize that would be for Arnold. 

The memory of their campsite was still vivid in his mind. The blood, so stark and visceral against the pale snow. The way it smelled. The sickly unease of knowing George would find it. Find the little faux grave stuffed with scraps of God only knows what. His boots would be soaked through with blood and slush, leaving pink track marks across the forest floor. He'd be panicked, alone...if he even bothered to come at all. 

Maybe he was still in camp, and some foot soldier was trekking through the muck. The thought brought some warmth to him. As much as Ben longed to see George clear the underbrush, arms ready to scoop him up and hold him tight, he wished he wouldn't. It was dangerous and foolish. A whole war lost, lives sacrificed, because George foolishly went after Ben. It was just the type of humiliating end to the war Arnold wanted. What all those awful, menacing letters had been hinting at. 

Ben was jostled from his thoughts as Rogers stumbled over a tree root. Is body pitched, taking Ben with him, but they did not topple. With a great groan Rogers bent his knees and hoisted the bulk of Ben’s shifting body back into his shoulder. Their procession began once more, a little more cautious than before. Rogers was getting tired. For the past hour Ben could hear the rise of his breath as it came forth in more hacking, shuddered draws. Though he had passed out a few times on his shoulder, Ben could tell they were moving slower too. Just yesterday it could take them a mere two hours to shift their landscape, leaving landmarks in their wake. Today, the large mountain skirting the left horizon hasn't moved at all, and by the sun in the sky they've been moving for four hours. 

They pitched again, this time too hard to recover. Ben hit the ground first, his body thrown off Rogers’ shoulders so quickly he had to second guess whether the man flung him intentionally. There was a thud as the man’s knees collided with the forest floor, the snow sinking around him. “Oh that's enough o’ that fer now, pup.” He panted, hands reaching for a flask in his pocket. “One hundred pounds soaking wet and ya carry like a fat stag. I ought to hack off yer legs to make it easier.” 

He took a long swig from his flask, amber liquid dribbling into his beard and down his shirt. Ben felt his stomach lurch again, the smell of whiskey and body odor overwhelming. He could see darkness creeping at the corners of his vision, threatening to black out his world once more, but he resisted. Nails digging into his palms, Ben chased the feeling from him. He needed to stay awake. They were stopped, and now they were most vulnerable. 

Limbs still heavy and numb, Ben figured he had at least one good dash of energy left in him. He had to use it wisely. If he could not overpower Rogers, he needed to put distance between them, and that took more energy than he could spare right now. Just breathing was hard against the cold winter wind. Ben took in a few lungfuls as he was propped up against the base of a tree.

“Don't know why yer so out of breath. I didn't see you trudging up them hills. Then again, last time you did you left some unsavory souvenirs.” Rogers said as he spit onto a cloth, wiping some dried blood from his knife. Ben grimaced,blood and tattered cloth still an image seated behind his eyes. “If ye had just cooperated we could have had a good breakfast. Some rabbit or what have you. But No...no you wanted to get rough. And now I have to carry yer sorry arse.” 

Ben lowered his gaze to the ground, trying his hardest to quell the desire to jump up and throttle the man. His wrists gave the bonds an experimental tug, flexing hard against the rough weave of the rope. It was a pitiful display. Rogers scoffed, searching through his pack. “You won't be going anywhere in your state, lad. Don't break those delicate wings of yours just yet. Arnold needs something to amuse himself, eh?” 

And then the jeering stopped. Rogers’ head tilted upward, still as a deer, listening intently. Ben closed his eyes, tilting his own head to try and pinpoint what Rogers had found. It was far, and soft, but it's rhythmic thumping was telltale. Horse hooves. A rider was coming.

Rogers lunged forward, grabbing Ben by his collar. “Don't you say a goddamn word, boy.” He growled. He took his blade, cutting free the bindings on his ankles before pressing the blade to his neck. “You're going to kick those legs up and  _ walk _ . And then you're gonna stay put.” He said, dragging Ben around the surrounding trees. Rogers surveyed them, taking Ben around each one as he stumbled and tripped over the roots. Finally they reached one Rogers approved of. It was a large gnarled tree, with long winding branches. Ben watched as Rogers parted the underbrush with one meaty hand. There, behind the bristly needles of the shrubs, was a hole. A hollowed out tree trunk, with an entrance no higher than a man’s thigh. To a person on foot, it was hardly noticeable until you stood before the tree. To a rider it would be invisible. 

“Get in.” Rogers said. Ben began to sink to his knees when he felt a strip of cloth slip ‘round his face, gagging his mouth. “No ideas, boy. You sit here until I deal with our guest.” The hole was a tight squeeze, the bark jagged and splintered. It tore at his jacket, and dug into his sides as he shimmied in. It smelled musty, like wood chips and frost, mixed with the soil he had upturned in his efforts. With a few twists and turns he was able to sit cross legged inside the tree, facing Rogers just beyond the curtain of pine needles. “Try not to wet yerself if things get a little dicey. I won't be carrying no piss bag.” 

Ben's heart thudded in his chest as Rogers disappeared into the snowy beyond. This was it, the moment alone he needed to make an escape. But the conditions weren't  _ right. _ A strange new rider approached, meaning there were now two souls he needed to flee from. If it was a red coat, he'd never outrun the horse. If it was a continental, Rogers would shoot them both before he mounted. Ben didn't want to waste time dreading over the possibility of it being a civilian. 

The space was tight, and Ben found himself readjusting every minute or so. Shifting his weight to the left, a sharp pain pierced his leg, biting into him. He let out a small cry into the gag, but fumbled to investigate the cause of the pain. Whatever it was, it was smooth, and sharp. It felt like stone under his numb fingers, but it came to a perfect point. A few more minutes of awkward shimmying and Ben managed to pick it up between his palms. An arrowhead. Without hesitation, he raised his palms to his lips, taking the arrowhead between his teeth. He rubbed the ropes against the stone, feeling it fray against his wrists. He wouldn't remove them entirely, just weaken them to their last thread. Then, when Rogers least expects it, he will break the bonds and run for his life. There was nothing that could hinder this plan. Nothing except…

The hooves of the rider stopped just outside his hiding spot. He was pinned to his spot. No matter how carefully he could crawl, the horse would spook. The rider would notice and take aim. Rogers would see the commotion and take action. If he wasn't shot, he’d be trampled. Ben held his breath, arrowhead still poised in his teeth as it cut into the rope.

“Robert Rogers, how did I know it would be you.”

_ No,it couldn't be. _

“Where is he, Rogers?”

_ It's not him. _

“Ol Georgie himself, my my I must say I’m impressed.” Ben put his face in his hands, dropping the weapon from his teeth. The  _ fool _ came! He was right outside his hole, not five feet away and Ben couldn't do a thing. His heart pounded in his ears as George’s horse edged forward. 

“Where  _ is he _ , Rogers?” George repeated, with a biting edge that made the hair on Ben’s neck stand up. There was silence, some shuffling where Ben could only assume Rogers was ignoring George. The feet in the stirrups shifted impatiently. 

“I don't know in the slightest.” Rogers said, exasperated. 

“You  _ don’t know? _ You leave a god awful mess, a false grave, and my soldier’s colors in the wind. But you don't know  _ where _ he is?” Ben felt tears well in his eyes.  _ I’m right here, I’m right here. _

Rogers clicked his tongue, tutting George like a mother reprimanding a child. “Now, now, we both know he's not  _ just _ a soldier. No General would ride out like you did for some Major who got himself snatched. We both know what purpose he serves you. Wake up a little lonely, did we?” Ben heard the sound of a pistol flint clicking.

“I will  _ not _ humor this. Where is Benjamin.” 

“ _ Major Tallmadge  _ has run off. But I see you two were on a cozy first name basis. Tell me, did he call you George, or do you like it when they call you General--”

“Do you  _ really _ expect me to believe that a man who has lost that much blood could outrun you? In this weather and terrain without decent supplies?” George clipped, his voice wavering. Rogers let out a great huff, clearing his throat.

“And would  _ you _ believe that a drowned rat from Long Island, who's been shot up God knows how many times, somehow managed to get it past me? You're no prize watchdog yerself, George. Remind me who died the last time you were supposed to watch--”

“I SAID ENOUGH”

George’s voice echoed back in the tense silence that followed. Ben found himself curling up. He had never heard him yell that loudly before. Never at him or his soldiers. This was deep. A well of untapped rage George had so carefully filled in. Rogers was the first to break the silence.

“You're not going to shoot me, George. So let's put the pistol down, aye?”

“And what makes you think I won't shoot? You came into  _ my tent _ , you killed a guard and abducted my Head of Intelligence.”

“Aye, all of those are true. But you forget, we’re far from Continental territory. This here is under His Majesty’s jurisdiction. You fire that pistol, people come running. And we’re not far, neither. Why just across that river there is a town that I know keeps men on both banks. Risk it if you must, but can you imagine? General George Washington, Commander of the Continental Army captured in some little river town, alone. They’ll be dragging you behind a horse all the way to York City.” 

Ben watched as the horse backed up. “I'm sure I cannot trust you to tell me which way he went. You don't get paid without him. So do I assume the hunt is on?” 

Rogers grunted. “I suppose. But my orders were dead or alive. So if I were you, I’d get a move on. I’ll be giving him another bleeding. From the neck  this time.” 

There was no more conversation. The horse moved, George taking it in a wide circle around the tree, never fully turning his back on Rogers. Ben felt his heart sink as the sound of hooves grew further and further away. The feeling that he should have said something, done  _ something,  _ nagged at him as Rogers approached the tree trunk.

Two meaty hands reached in and grabbed him by his legs, dragging him out of the tree. The bark scraped his hands and face, sending snow and dead leaves cascading down into his hair. “Let's go, boy.” Ben was tugged to his feet, his mind spinning as his eyes adjusted to the daylight. His gaze fixed on the bobbing figure of George on his horse, back turned and almost over a rise, where he would disappear. Likely forever. Ben felt Rogers’ hands tank at his coat, but his feet remained anchored to the ground. The horse was almost gone, and he refused to move just yet. Rogers pulled again, this time coming close to Ben’s elbow. This was  _ it. This was it. _

Ben drove his elbow into the soft center of Rogers’ stomach, feeling the air rush out of him as he sunk deeper. In an instant, he flexed his wrists, wedging his arms apart with his torso--one yank and the ropes were snapped. As Rogers staggered, head between his knees, Ben pulled the gag free from his mouth and took as big a breath as he could manage.

“GEORGE" 

The horse stopped, turning back to glance down the rise and Ben held up his arms as high as he could.  _ Let him see me, please God let him see me! _

“BENJAMIN!” 

Something collided with Ben’s side, striking him across the ribs and taking him to the ground. Ben heard the thunder of hooves as he writhed on the forest floor.

“You little cu--” Rogers swore, cut off as Ben hurled a rock at his face. It struck him above his ruined eye, a red stain blossoming across his brow. Yet it was still hard to get to his feet, his gashed thigh still sore and weak. Rogers looked over him once more, knife in hand. He slashed once, catching Ben’s upturned palms. The blade sliced through almost painlessly, only the sting of cold steel registering. Ben watched as the knife was raised again, wet with blood as it caught the light.

And then the knife fell, knocked from Rogers’ grasp as George’s horse swiftly cut behind him. George’s foot left the stirrup to drive its boot into the side of Rogers’ head, sending the man toppling to the ground. The horse sped on a few yards before turning, and Ben struggled to find his balance. Every nerve was on fire, his head pounding and vision blurring. He could hear George call for him, though it muffled and distorted. He saw Rogers laying face down in the snow, blood still sleeping from his head. The world spun and Ben could have sworn there were more people here. Eyes in the trees. Arnold. Only for a brief second before George scooped him up in his arms and hoisted him onto horseback. The look on his face was ghastly. Ben figured he probably looked much worse. 

“Arnold…” Ben murmured, leaning back onto George’s chest as the horse started off. George wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. 

“I know. I know Arnold was behind this.”

Ben’s head lolled back, darkness creeping up on him again. He was slipping back into that dreadful suspension. “Arnold, I….”

“It's ok, Benjamin. I have you. I have you.”

_ I thought I saw Arnold.  _


	9. Due North

_ “I SAID ENOUGH” _

The sound of Washington screaming, raw and brutal, was enough to send him to the ground. There, just beyond the brush, his former General on horseback and Robert Rogers, locked in tense confrontation. He was locked in place, unable to do more than watch as the scene unfolded. 

_ My god, what has he done to you, Ben? _

The boy was a mess; lip split, hair muddy and matted, wearing faded old rags with a tourniquet on the thigh, the blue binding dark with blood. Mottled with bruises, wrists raw against the ropes, Ben looked like a walking corpse. 

His heart leapt into his throat, the glimmer of Rogers’ knife coming down across Ben’s palms, drawing new blood just as Washington’s horse intercepted. It felt agonizingly slow and too quick to see simultaneously; bits and pieces of the fight so fresh in his mind he could still smell the leather of the saddle even in the biting cold. And Ben, he could see Ben. Just a brief moment where their eyes locked. Where Ben looked at him with terror in his eyes before being hoisted up on that horse.

“ _ Arnold _ ”

His name. His name, spoken with such a raw and panicked voice Arnold almost leapt from the bushes to his aid. But Washington on his horse was too big an obstacle. He wouldn't be able to take him like this, on foot and with only a pistol. Not without risking Ben. But the boy said  _ his name.  _ Seated in the saddle, passed out from his torment, Ben was slumped against Washington’s chest, though his mouth moved only slightly.  _ He's trying to call for me. _

And then they were gone; off in a flurry of hoofbeats that kicked up the snow like a blizzard. The sounds ceased as Washington dipped behind the rise, speeding back towards any town that might lie beyond the treeline. 

Cautiously, he stepped out and approached Rogers. The man had been struck across the face by Washington’s boot, and Arnold only needed to glance once at the spittle on the ground to know he's lost a tooth--maybe even a few. His head bled, twigs and pebbles sticking to the red glistening side of his face. It's raw from cold, and starting to bruise around the edge. Arnold felt more secure with his decision to lay in wait; he would never want to be trapped beneath Washington’s heel. 

Rogers grunted, consciousness coming to him slowly as Arnold drew near. Though still dazed, his eyes locked on the approaching pair of boots, blinking at each crunch in the snow.

“Well isn't this a pretty sight” Rogers laughed, hand dabbing at his wound. “Split like a melon, and seein’  _ red.”  _ Arnold huffed, fists clenched at his sides.

“This is unacceptable, Rogers.” He spat, watching as Rogers grunted around on the forest floor. “You’ve lost Tallmadge.”

“Aye, that I have.” Rogers replied, wiping his scraped palms on the front of his soiled jacket. “And you've left your cozy nook. Now why might that be?” 

He had an inkling; Arnold knew. The trickle of a thought that the money had run out, that he was here on other business. Still, Arnold would not concede. “You drove a high price, and word still got back to me in York City that Tallmadge had been snatched. I came to retrieve the boy before troops were deployed.”

Rogers grit his teeth. “That's a bold faced lie. I know you must have been skulkin’ around to see the big man himself ride through here. He's keeping it  _ hush. _ He came to retrieve his Molly himself. Ain't no word reached York City these past two days.” 

Arnold froze, his fists locked in place as Rogers rose to his feet. “So then  _ why _ would you grace lil’ ol’ me with your presence?” He mocked playfully. “Unless...you  _ don't  _ have the money.”

“The outright  _ gall---”  _

_ “ _ You don't have my money, Arnold.” 

There was a pause, a sobering silence as Arnold stared down the man in front of him. “That hardly matters now. You've lost him. Not to mention you've beaten him half to death. Tell me, Rogers, would he have lasted five minutes on his own two feet after this?” 

Rogers laughed. “You didn't seem so concerned the last time we chatted.  _ Cripple him if you must _ , your words, yes?” He produced his knife, the blade coated in congealing blood...Benjamin’s. “I make good on my promises. He'd arrive, just a few pounds lighter and a little more... _ pale.” _

Arnold could feel his stomach flip, the blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight contrasting with the memory of Ben’s dark stained tourniquet. “You bled him dry.” He said, his mouth dry as sand. 

Rogers eyed him carefully, his knife moving absent mindedly with the motions of his hand, twitching and twirling as if tracing some unseen map. Arnold let his hand drop to the pistol on his hip, hidden beneath his cloak. A moment later a look of realization settled on Rogers’ face, his grizzly beard and bloody cheek slack.

“Christ, man. You too? What force must Tallmadge’s backside have to make all your compasses point due north?” 

“You  _ quiet---” _

“I gotta tell ya’, he may look like an apple cheeked young lad, but he's not much more than skin and bones when you strip away the uniform.”

“You did  _ what--” _

“Come now, none o’ the bits your interested in fell off. He's just a bit chilly.” 

Bile rose to the back of Arnold’s throat, bitter and searing as he fumbled for his pistol. Rogers lunged, knife in hand. Arnold batted the offending hand away, but lost his grip on the gun, which flew into a nearby snowbank; lost. 

They hit the ground hard, and Arnold let out a cry as he landed on his bad leg. The pain was a blinding white hot flash that blotted out the forest. He came to in time to see Roger’s fist come down across his face. The snow beside him turned pink with bloody spittle. Rogers’ fist sped by again, this time narrowly missing his face and striking the ground. He cried out, knuckles scraped and bloody from the frost hardened forest floor. In an instant Arnold shoved the man, driving the meat of his palm into the bloody side of Rogers’ fact. He dug in hard, feeling the Rogers’ face contort with pain as he did so. 

Scrambling to his feet was a challenge, but Arnold managed to gain his footing in time. He drove a kick into Rogers’ ribs, sending him back to the floor. And once more to the side, taking his breath from him. The knife was still within reach, and Arnold made a grab for it. 

Then he ran. His leg hindered him, forcing him to gallop in a pathetic hobbling manner as he took of towards where he had last seen Washington go. The sound of heavy panting rose behind him. Hurt, but not yet done, Rogers pursued him, his bulking frame hurtling toward Arnold. It was becoming too close. One trip up and Arnold could fall, be overtaken, or land on the knife he still brandished in hand. 

In a last ditch effort, Arnold pivoted sharply, leading Rogers towards the river. The sound of it's current flooded his ears, and the hope of losing him in the icy torrent was appealing. 

“Fuckin’ traitor bastard---”

The river came into view, banks slicked with ice. No foot bridge, not here. The bargemen must be down river, though Arnold wouldn't have wanted to draw attention to himself. Instead he bolted towards the icy rocks, eyes cast downward to scale them. 

“Arnold!”

A hand grabbed the back of Arnold’s coat, pulling him backwards off the rocks. He toppled off, one hand striking Rogers as he fell. Rogers staggered forward, seizing Arnold’s arm and twisting it roughly. 

“You're goin’ to give me my goddamn pay, you filthy rat.” Rogers spat, pinning the arm behind his back. Arnold writhed, legs kicking wildly as he tried to free himself. He could taste blood, the inside of his cheek rubbing against his teeth, tearing. 

“Can't get up, can you? Neither could Tallmadge---”

Arnold saw red, leg shooting out and connecting with Rogers’ shin. His arm was released, and Arnold scrambled back to his feet. “Don't.” His fist connected with Rogers face. “You  _ dare.”  _ Another strike to the stomach, doubling him over. “Say another  _ WORD!” _

He shoved him.

Arnold didn't register what happened until he heard the splash; Rogers disappeared beneath the surface of the icy river. The world went quiet, no sound existing beyond the rush of water and blood in his ears. Rogers didn't surface. Arnold let his eyes gaze downriver, toward the bend where the rocks were jagged. He thought, just briefly, that the shape of a man broke the surface of the water. Just as it was whisked around the bend. 

He thought…

Arnold turned on his heel, wiping the blood from his mouth. He needed to find Washington. Find Ben. 

He headed for the rise.

* * *

The inn was small and shabby, just dingy enough for its patrons to keep their heads down. They  arrived at dusk, Ben slung over the saddle limply. His head swam, barely feeling George’s hands lift him off the saddle. Each step was light, as if his body weighed no more than a feather. Ben feared if George let go he would float away, helpless to some gentle breeze. 

“May I help you, sir?”

George tempered his voice, his smooth dark tone replaced with something lighter and more demure. “My nephew and I need a room. He was ambushed on the road.” Ben panted heavily against George’s cloak, unable to do more than play the part of a battered child. 

“Damned rebels. It's getting harder and harder for an honest man to work. Do you require a doctor, sir? There's a skilled medic with the regulars who does house calls--”

“That won't be necessary. I'm a doctor. Just a room, and some fresh water.”

“Right away, sir. You won't be disturbed...not many visitors since rebel activity spiked. You're my only guests this evening.” 

Climbing the stairs was an ordeal, his breath catching in his chest, escaping in harsh wheezes. George picked him up as a parent would a sick child, cradling him against his chest until they heard the click of a lock.

“The fresh water?”

“Get settled, sir. Come to the desk and we’ll fetch it.” 

Ben melted into the bed, its mattress impossibly soft against his bruised skin. The room spun, voices muffling as he struggled to breath. He felt the bed sag as George sat next to him, speaking softly. It was low and gentle, though most of the words drifted past his ears. 

“Benjamin?”

Ben nodded, hand twitching to brush his fingers against George.  _ Warm. _ So warm it hurts. How long had it been since he felt this enveloped. Two pitiful days. But oh how good it felt to be within the radiating glow of George. Hot flesh and blood that he could curl up against and rest. Finally  _ rest.  _

“...you mean the world to me.”

Ben moved his lips, tongue darting out to try and wet them. The metallic tang of his split lip still lingered, bruised and swollen. It was met with a soft kiss, gentle and light against his battered lips. Ben moaned and leaned into it, feeling George’s tongue slip past his lips. He saw home. He saw nights in his tent, Alex and Gilbert on his cot passing a flask. Long nights with George wrapped up in a quilt beside the fire, his voice a low rumble against his ear. He was going  _ home. Home _ . Nothing could shatter this peace.

“I’ll return, Benjamin.” 

He heard George leave, slow and steady footsteps leading out the door. He'd be back with the water. They'd clean up and go home.

This would be over.

This was almost over. 

  
  
  



	10. Bruised

It was nightfall by the time Alex came into town. His face was red from cold, his thin scarf poorly keeping the winter chill out. Dismounting, he took in his surroundings. It was practically a ghost town; just a small settlement straddling continental and red coat activity. Windows had been boarded up, homes left unkempt; most likely left in a hurry when the fighting got too close to home. Only a few establishments remained open. A tavern, adorned with a few choice vagrants, and an shabby little inn. 

Alex moved to search his pack, his horse standing between him and the inn across the road, when he heard a voice.

“You there! How would you like to make some coin?” 

The voice was familiar, and Alex peeked over his horse to its source. Down by the tavern was a man; tall, adorned in traveling clothes that had been muddied. He stood at a crooked angle over one of the drunken stragglers half passed out by the tavern. A gait Alex would recognize anywhere.  _ Arnold. _

The straggler hiccuped, and fumbled through a sentence before Arnold took a few coins from his pocket. The man went inside the tavern, only briefly, before coming out with an ale in hand. Alex watched closely as the drunk man stumbled about the street, singing incoherently as he tried to balance the cup of ale atop his head. All in all it was a rather frightful scene, and Alex was tempted to go get the man a warm bed to sleep off his stupor. 

But Arnold was close, and Alex glimpsed him leave the drunkard’s side to slip into the gritty inn across the way. A clerk ran out a moment later, confronting the drunk in the street, scolding him before shooing him away. Alex took a step back to study the inn; it seemed that Arnold had checked in. There was a candle on in the window on the second floor. He watched it flicker until he saw Arnold step by the window, at which point he ducked down behind his horse.

A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. He must be lodging here for the night. Alex’s fears were true, which meant that Arnold would know where to find Benjamin. He contemplated riding out to the woods, skipping town completely to scour the land. If Arnold planned to stay here, they must be close, or just arriving. 

Instead, he reached for his pistol, loading it with powder. He pressed his back against the horse, hoping he was short enough not to be seen from the window. 

“I hope this will be enough for your nephew”

“It will be. Thank you for your help”

Alex cursed to himself. Other guests were here. If he were to confront Arnold, he would have to ensure he didn't make a scene. Alex risked another glance at the lit window, hoping to see another candle flicker on in the adjacent room.

If he could see where the guests were he could plan accordingly; sneak in once the lights went out and gag him before he could scream. 

But another candle did not light. Instead there was movement in Arnold’s room, as another tired face appeared in the window.

“ _ George?” _

George, muddied and tired, moving to draw the curtains shut. That wasn't Arnold’s room, it was  _ George’s _ .

“No!” Alex caught himself before he called out anything else. His hands shook, rattling the pistol like a flimsy toy. Should he charge in? Too risky. He could alert Arnold before reaching George. Any attention could lead to his capture. Oh but how he wanted to rush in there. Take Arnold by his collar and throttle him. His finger itched to pull the trigger. 

Time was of the essence. Alex left his horse, sneaking into the stables adjacent to the inn. He was correct; the mare Gilbert had acquired for George stood in the stable. Working quickly, Alex saddled her up and brought her out next to his horse. If George was truly in there with Arnold, they'd need a quick escape. 

* * *

Arnold entered the inn, striding up to the young man behind a small desk. “Sorry to bother you, but there's a man outside acting strangely. I believe he's drunk, or mad.” He said, gesturing towards the door.

The man looked past him, catching sight of the drunk balancing the ale atop his head. “What madness is this? I’ll send him off, Sir, thank you.” He said before bolting out the door. Arnold could hear him scolding the drunk, ignoring the slurred claim that he was paid to act like such a fool. 

Leaning over the counter Arnold spied the log book, observing only one name checked in for the night.  _ Samuel Lawrence.  _ Arnold scoffed; this had to be it. He had followed the trail, catching his own horse up to speed as he met the main road. Ben was in horrid shape, and this little hovel was as good as any to hole up for the night. He had hoped Washington was smarter than to use the names of fallen brothers, but then again, Washington had left camp to track Benjamin. 

Mr.Samuel Lawrence was occupying room 4 with a guest, and Arnold took it upon himself to pocket the keeper’s spare key before the young man returned from the street.

“Sorry about that. Things here have taken a bit of a turn since the fighting started. Only drunks and travelers now. May I help you with anything else, sir?”

“A room, if you will.” 

The clerk escorted him to room 6, where Arnold stood idly until the sound of footsteps had retreated. Then, silent as a shadow, he crept to the next room. The key clicked in the lock, and Arnold eased the door open gently. Washington may be in the room, and he preferred to silently enter before the man noticed him.

However, a much different scene was set. Benjamin, alone, laid atop the covers like a deadman. Washington was nowhere to be seen, and a quick glance out the window proved that the streets were relatively empty. 

Ben looked broken. His wounds were so much worse up close, purpled and swollen. His breathing was ragged, and Arnold had no doubt that his exposure to the cold had wrecked his lungs. Sitting on the edge of the bed Arnold gazed wistfully at the tourniquet on his leg.

“It seems you and I have twin wounds, don't we, Benjamin?”

Ben’s eyes moved beneath his lids, twitching to focus. “Don't struggle. I understand. This damned war has made fools of us both. What a bright young lad you are, too. You saw me in an instant. Unlike  _ Washington _ , who barreled in there like a madman. And he dismissed  _ me _ for being reckless.” Arnold scoffed in disbelief. 

He paused, taking a moment to watch Ben as he struggled to move. One hand flinched, fingers brushing against his hand on the mattress. “We’re not so different…” Arnold sighed. This was pitiful. The boy was a wreck. Ravaged by war, by Rogers, by every dishonorable task Washington put him through. “I know now why you couldn't write back. And perhaps there were better ways to...deal with this. I've worked on my temper.”

Ben’s hand remained pressed against his, his skin soft and warming by the second. “We could leave. Go to York City and catch a boat to London. A place where a fine man as yourself can flourish. You can't have the opportunity I didn't, and live with some semblance of dignity.”

Ben hummed softly, fighting the heavy pull of sleep. “I meant it when I said you could be a great man,Benjamin. Just not  _ here. _ It's only when I lost what glory I’d scrounged up my whole life that I realized that. And I'm determined to set you right. Save your family line. Your reputation... _ you _ ...mean the world to me.”

Ben’s mouth moved, tongue darting to pass over his split lip.And maybe that's why he did it; succumbed to some urge he had suppressed while caring for the boy, leaning down to press their lips together. The kiss was soft, and Arnold held back for fear of crushing against his wound. But Ben  _ kissed back. _ Long and slow, sighing into it in such a way that Arnold felt bold enough to slip his tongue past Ben’s lips and chase the tangy metallic taste of blood. He was warm, with a beckoning sweetness that reminded Arnold of honey drizzled in tea. It soothed him, filling his chest with an inviting heat that spread to his cold ravaged hands and feet.   


When they parted, Arnold felt the heat rise to his face. He wanted to pick Ben up and leave. Run for his horse. But Washington was close, and fleeing without dealing with him would only prolong this torment. He  _ would _ come for Benjamin.He couldn't let that happen.  


Arnold rose from the bed, one hand tracing the curve of Ben’s cheek. His fingers pulled gently on the bruises adorning his sweet face. 

“I’ll return, Benjamin.”

With that, Arnold moved to the door, where a large empty armoire sat beside the frame. He opened it, moving the hangers aside before stepping in and closing the wood behind him.

  
Washington  _ would  _ return. And this time Arnold would finish him. 


	11. In Wait

George set down the pail, the innkeeper following suit with another, and a handful of rags. “Don't worry about the sheets, sir. Just do what you can for him.” He said. George nodded solemnly, thanking the man for his generosity before clicking the door shut.

Ben was in terrible condition. Under the light of the candles his bruises were dark purple, deep painful things that made Ben wince as George started to undress him. He took his time, shearing off the tattered disguise Rogers dressed him in to reveal more cuts, more bruises. The worst of which was the gash in Ben’s thigh; the place he was bled out. The incision was healing, thankfully, but without proper stitching the scab could split. Rogers had been wise enough to apply pressure, and yet cruel enough to see this situation. If George were to place Ben in the tub, the wound would reopen, and Ben would bleed to death. 

Patching him up was painstaking, but George had come prepared. He fetched a needle from his pack, as well as a flask of whiskey. He would have to make due with this until a doctor at camp could fix him properly. The needle was sanitized as best as could be, and then threaded through the washed down out gash. Ben squirmed through most of it, unable to voice is discomfort with more than throaty whines. George cursed his clumsy hands. Had Martha been here, she’d have sewn the boy so seamlessly you’d think it was fresh skin. But he was not Martha, and Ben would bear the jagged stitching of his poor handiwork. 

The rest of his wounds were easily treatable. A damp rag, some salve, and patience cleared away the dried blood and dirt. George was content to let Ben sleep, stroking the washcloth over his skin soothingly. His lashes fluttered, struggling to stay open a fraction of a second as George redressed him in the change of clothes Gilbert had packed.

“Of course…” George huffed, working the right breeches over Ben’s knees. “He’d pack the most impossible pair…” Ben hummed absentmindedly, the humor of their situation reaching him. He was coming to, slowly. George made idle small talk as he buttoned up Ben into a warm shirt and waist coat. He even managed to get a few words out. 

“I'm sorry…”

George put down the rag, his heart in pieces. “No, dear Benjamin. I'm sorry. There was more I could have don--”

“I hid something from you.” Ben moved to sit up, his eyes filled with worry. “Letters...several of them.” His voice was barely a whisper, and shaking. “I thought burning them would protect us.”

George quieted. He didn't need to hear more. The long nights he spent awake, Ben urging him to sleep. He was excellent at keeping secrets, his Benjamin, and George wished he wasn't so tired so he could spot it sooner. In some way Ben might think he deserved this punishment.

“Benjamin, please. You acted on your instincts. We've both made grievous errors, but it's nothing we can't fix.” George sighed, on hand rubbing Ben’s knee through the fabric of his breeches. “I am so lucky...so very grateful you're alive.” 

His gaze was downcast, eyes studying the bandages around his leg. It was a pitiful look, one full of regret and shame. “I'm grateful you came.” George frowned, this statement an obvious jab at how foolish he was to track Ben alone. 

“Would you have been more grateful if I had sent Alexander?”

Ben laughed, caught in his jab. “No, I think not. Alex would have most certainly barreled in headfirst and shot something.” He paused, smile slipping from his face. “But, really...you shouldn't have come alone. Not for me.”

George reached down, his hand cupping Ben’s cheek lightly. He thumbed under the eye feather light, afraid of pressing on the dark purple bruises set there. “I'm afraid I had to. Good conscience wouldn't let me sit and wait for you to return.” Two weak hands grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, pulling him in for a slow, languid kiss.

“Your lip, we best not to…”

Ben pressed in once more, kissing deeper. His hands wound up into George’s hair, reclaiming each lock beneath his fingers. He moaned softly, shifting so George could move onto the bed. “Where was all that enthusiasm from earlier?” he murmured, lips pressed hot and close to his. George crawled into bed, legs straddling Ben beneath him. He was careful not to press any weight on the boy, just hovering enough to box him in within his frame. A hand on the front of his pants confirmed he was doing exactly what Ben wanted. A little moment of excitement, tapping into their adrenaline filled reunion, to bring him back to his normal self.

George sucked gently on Ben’s lip, skirting the edge of the place where it turned purple and yellow. As he entered tender territory, the hand on his pants tightened, giving him a little precautionary squeeze. “I've missed you.” George breathed, making his way down the elegant line of Ben’s neck, “I've missed you so much.” 

“ _ George” _

George rolled his hips, grazing against Ben lightly. He shuddered, the hand working George through his breeches picking up the pace. They slotted together so nicely. Tired, battered, broken, they fit hand in glove. George moaned, kissing Ben deeper as he reached to aid Ben in his work, undoing the front of his breeches so that Ben could slip his hand inside. He did so almost immediately, breathing heavily as George’s eyes drifted close. It was just them. The heavy breathing, light sucking kisses, the steady creak of the bed.

And then something cold pressed against the back of his skull.

Ben went rigid beneath him, and George opened his eyes to see his attention focused on something over his shoulder.  _ Someone _ was here.

“Hello, George.”

George moved to rise off of Ben, but a jab to the back of his head stopped him. A pistol. Ben had blanched, the flush of desire drained from his face as he studied the intruder.

“Arnold…”

_Here?_ _How?_ The man had a bad leg. He couldn't have crept up on them easily. Not unless he was here the whole time. Why send Rogers if he just planned to do the deed himself?

“Off the bed. On your knees.” He barked, tapping the pistol against George impatiently. “Get off him this instant.” 

George did as he was told, hands out where Arnold could see them. This was bad, very bad, and he knew it. The most important thing was to be calm, to get Ben out safely. 

Ben had no intention of being calm.

“What are you doing here?” He whispered, eyes wide. He shook visibly, hands curled towards his chest in a feeble attempt to pull the front of his shirt close. Arnold turned to him, gaze softening.

“Making good on my word, Benjamin. I told you I'd get you out. There's nothing to worry about now. You don't need to have this filth rub up against you anymore.”

George eyed Arnold warily. “Let him go--” he started.

Arnold scoffed. “That's the whole point, George. He  _ is _ being let go. Let go from  _ you.  _ I know who you are-- _ what _ you are. A lecherous vile man, with no respect. No honor. You take bright young men and you break their will. Now, young Benjamin here is a talented man, you and I both know that. But only a coward would make him choose between your bed chambers and the front lines. He's only a boy.”

George grit his teeth. “So  _ I  _ am the coward, yes? Not you, who sold our army’s secrets to the British for what? Money? Glory? Material things that feed some idea of yourself?”

“I had no  _ honor _ here. You took that from me when you placed me behind a desk. When my health and personal fortune were sacrificed for this war while  _ you _ sat prettily in Mount Vernon, with your hands down another officer’s breeches--”

“ _ Honor _ is not something that can be taken. It's sacrificed by the one who holds it. You shattered what little honor you had when you put our nation at risk. All those young men, dying, were no more precious than a few pounds lost from your personal estate.” 

Arnold sneered. “And what of Benjamin? He was a promising soldier and you made him a  _ spy. _ If anyone were to catch him they'd hang him. I'm doing the merciful thing and removing him from this entirely. He can leave this war. Come with me to England and continue his studies like a proper young man should.” 

George shifted on his knees, the pain becoming a dull throb. “You're obsessed.” George said. “And it suits you.”

“Says the man on his knees with his cock half out. Tell me, how many others were there? Or was it just Benjamin that you put your hands to?” 

“Do not speak of him that way.” George hissed. “Like he's some vagrant youth you’d find by the docks. He is an  _ officer _ . One who holds higher respect than you, a  _ disgraced General.  _ Benjamin is---”

“Is what?” Arnold teased. “Your lover?” 

Silence fell upon George as he shut his mouth. He had never had to say  _ what _ they were. They knew what they were. Loyal, compatible. Partners on the battlefield, and in hearth and home. He could not state it so plainly here, not at the end of a pistol. 

“It may come as a surprise to you, but he's not. In fact, Benjamin was quite relieved to be found. Kissed me with gratitude at the opportunity to leave this place, and you.”

Now the air felt thick, and George could see Ben pacing through his thoughts.

_ Where was all that enthusiasm from earlier? _

The realization crept slowly across his face, mouth slack in disgust. 

“You…”

“Yes, Benjamin.”

“ _ YOU---” _

George tilted back as Ben sprung off the bed, teeth bared. The gun went off, firing into the wood below George’s shoulder. “Benjamin, stop this!” George cried, afraid of his stitches rupturing. But it seemed Arnold had more to fear, as Benjamin pinned him to the floor, fists landing hard against his face and neck.

“Benjamin!”

“HE  _ TOUCHED  _ ME!”

It was all Ben said before devolving into madness, unhinged and furious. He beat against Arnold mercilessly, his own bruised knuckles splitting and bleeding as he did so. George ran to pull Ben off, receiving a blow to the jaw. 

“People will have heard the shot. We need to flee.” He pleaded, tugging at Ben. The boy thrashed in his arms wildly.

“DIE, YOU SON OF A BITCH I HOPE YOU BURN” he cried, tears streaming down his face. Arnold was stunned, scrambling to his feet as George grabbed Ben and slung him over his shoulder.

“Unhand him!”

But George was already out the door, with Ben kicking and screaming atop his shoulders. He tore down the stairs, aware of how close Arnold was behind them. Only a flight behind. Any stumble and he could lose Ben.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH---I’LL KILL YOU!” Ben sobbed, his fingers twisted in George’s shirt. The innkeeper rushed from his desk, eyes wide.

“Sir! Your nephew!”

George tried to lie, to say his nephew was experiencing severe shock, but Arnold’s voice cut him off.

“Fetch the regulars! That’s General Washington!” 

George watched in on horror as the man fled into the street, calling for help. He bolted out the door, Arnold only a few steps behind him. He wouldn't make it. His mare was in the stables. Arnold would catch him before he could get in his saddle. He’d killed them both. 

He stumbled onto the street, legs burning as Ben continued his thrashing and screaming. Lights started appearing in windows. Whistles could be heard down the road towards the tavern. Panicked, George looked across the road.

His horse?

George felt the sensation of fingers on his braid, tugging his head back. Then a large crack, and a whooshing sound before his braid was released. He glanced back as he ran, seeing Arnold clutching his arm. Blood. He'd been shot.

“Sir!”

“Alexander?” George cried in disbelief. “You shouldn't  _ be _ here.” Alexander ran to take Ben from his shoulders, hoisting him up in the saddle.

“I've never heard a thank you like that before. Quickly. The innkeeper has woken the whole town.” He said, clambering up to his own horse. Alex wrapped an arm around Ben, who was shaking and crying. “Ride fast, as fast as you can. I'll take Ben.”

“Wait--”

“ _ Trust me.  _ They want your head. I suggest you go  _ now! _ ” Alex shouted, wheeling his horse around and taking off down the road. George followed suite, racing until his horse overtook Alex’s and bolted off into the night. The sound of shouting and gunshots got weaker as he rode, until there was only the sound of hoofbeats, and the steady sound of sobbing from Benjamin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy
> 
> Next chapter will be the *final* chapter of Red Thread. Feel free to leave some love in the comments!


	12. Bells

The gunfire behind him had faded, the path ahead nothing but the sound of his horse’s hooves against the dirt. He dared not look back. Not one second, one tempting moment that might cause him to stop his horse and put his men at risk. Not just his men...his family.

It felt like minutes. It felt like hours. A ride with the moon at his back, cold wind whipping at his face. The thought of Benjamin slung across Alexander’s horse, broken. Would the rage have subsided? Would Benjamin even _survive?_ He had seen this fury in men before; in soldiers who tapped some deep reservoir of strength in their final struggle. It was raw and unhinged, the stress of it bringing about the man’s final moments as he clawed the eyes off his opponent. The thought that Ben would be taken by this mortified him. He could not bear to wait in the cold, only to see Alex’s horse arrive with the limp, lifeless corpse of his beloved boy draped in the saddle. That after all of this, George could not be there in his final moments, holding his hand as the strain on his heart became too great.

Tears whipped from his eyes, wicked away by the wind as George sped towards camp. He would be forced to come around the back. To alert Lafayette of his arrival with their agreed upon signal. As he turned from the main road, spying the flickering windows of the manor in the distance, he let out a sigh of relief. Patriot territory.

The horse slowed to a trot, George gracefully guiding it through the overgrown path behind the manor. It was an easy way in, and mostly forgotten by staff and family. It was his way out but a few days ago, but the pressure to remain hidden mounted. He must alert only Lafayette. No one must know that he was not laid up in bed these past three days.

As the candlelight in the windows grew brighter, George dismounted and led his horse through the last of the underbrush, tying her off to a post before creeping towards a large boulder. It had been agreed upon that George would signal from the treeline, in a way that Gilbert  alone would hear. The night was still and quiet, save for the rustling of the trees. George’s boots cracked and snapped twigs loudly, despite his stealth, as he retrieved a little satchel that Gilbert had hidden.

Inside were a few items. A small, silver bell. A candle. A tiny box of matches. Pulling them out, George crept to the edge of the treeline, using a large tree trunk to hide himself from view of the ground floor windows of the manor. He peeked around, turning his gaze upwards at his quarters, lit, with the curtains rustling in the breeze.

He grasped the little bell, holding it out from the tree and giving it three good rings. The chime was small and tinkling, and to unsuspecting ears would sound like a wind chime caught in a gust. But this was no wind chime, and George waited for a silhouette to come forth to the window.

Just as agreed upon, Gilbert’s figure did approach the window. His face was grim and serious, eyes combing the darkness of the woods beyond the three candles lit on his window sill. Carefully, he leaned down and blew the center one out, and waited.

George struck the match, lighting his small candle and holding it out from the tree, where its tiny flame quivered in the night air. Gilbert leaned down again, blowing out the left candle. _Stables._ George would meet him at the stables. George promptly blew his candle out, stuffing it and the bell back into the bag before making his way to the old stables around back.

Gilbert emerged a few minutes later, clutching his cloak tightly around him to keep out the chill. He walked quickly, eyes moving past George and into the woods behind him. “My dearest General, are you alone?” He asked, voice cracking. His face betrayed his thoughts; gratitude for George’s return. Mourning for the absence of his two companions.

“I am...for now.” George whispered, turning to face the woods. “Alexander took Ben and fled.” Relief flooded Gilbert, and he released his cloak in order to wrap George into a hug. His shoulders shook as George placed his palms to them.

“I was so frightened.” Gilbert whispered. “To lose you...to lose this family.” George broke their embrace. They weren't out of trouble just yet. Alex had not arrived. Gilbert quickly caught on, his face pale. “How far?” He asked. George merely shook his head. He did not know.

“Miles, perhaps. We were exposed in enemy territory. I fled up the main road. Alexander turned down another. That was the last I'd seen of him.” A gust of wind pierced their bubble, sending Gilbert shivering.

“Come, let us go inside. It is too col--”

“No. No I can't.”

“ _Please._ I beg you. Do not catch your death for real. We will relight the candles. Alexander will ring.”

* * *

Inside his quarters George could see the extent of their little plot. His bed was rumpled, made to look as if a man lay sleeping beneath the thick quilt. Gilbert assured him it was only half as ridiculous as it looked. He feared an empty bed would raise questions as he briefly opened the door to take meals. There were a few trays left on the desk, one with cleared plates, and the other with a meal half picked at.

“I have told them His Excellency needs broth, and still they bring meat and cheese.” Gilbert sighed. “They're convinced you will waste away on broth alone.” George felt his stomach rumble at the sight of it. Not a solid meal in three days, and if Gilbert hadn't spoken up he might have wolfed down the cold meat right then and there.

“His Excellency’s appetite is returning. Please, send up a fresh plate. The warmth will do him good.” Gilbert instructed, his head peeking behind the door and into the hallway. A small ‘yessir’ was heard, and then quiet. George settled for a stale crust of bread.

“You must undress. Three days with not a glimpse of you, our hosts have grown suspicious. Get into bed, make like a man on the upswing.” George did just that, discarding his muddy cloak and travel clothes, donning instead a long fresh shirt before slipping below the covers. He settled back into the pillows, hoping his weary mood would sell his sickness. A few passes of a wet rag from Gilbert cleared the dirt from his cheeks, leaving only wet flushed skin. The perfect cover.

As expected, the host did come up to check on George. Mr.Evans entered his quarters alongside the maid, hands wringing nervously. “Is all well, General?” He asked. “I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if you were to suffer in my home.”

George smiled weakly, propping himself up for his meal. “I have my appetite.” He said, taking the tray into his lap. “I’ll take that as a good sign.” Gilbert nodded, washing his hands in the small basin by the door.

“His Excellency has made quite the recovery.” He beamed. “The color has returned to him, and he eats like a man starved. No doubt your hospitality has saved him. We thank you--”

A small bell chimed, cutting through their conversation. George stiffened, unsure of how to divert their attention. Mr.Evans quilted his head, tilting his ear like a dog. “Did you hear that?” He asked, eyes darting towards the window. Gilbert dropped a rag into the basin with a wet splat, striding over towards the window. George watched him angle his body to keep the candles from view.

“There's a stiff breeze tonight. I've told His Excellency that this open window will do no good. Must have caught the wind chimes on the porch.” He muttered, quickly blowing out the center candle as his hands fumbled with the latches. Mr. Evans moved to help him, but was stopped by the slam of the window. Gilbert stepped away, the center and right candle snuffed out. _The stairwell._ “Silly thing took out our candles.” He huffed.

Mr.Evans chuckled, distracted by Gilbert’s ruffled state. “You've been playing doctor too long, Marquis. It's got you frazzled. Shall I send up some sherry?” He inquired. Gilbert waved his hand, refusing the gesture.

“I shall not indulge until my General is well again. If death takes him, it takes us both.”

“Gilbert--”

“It is true. Now, unless two of us shall suffer under your roof I suggest we give His Excellency privacy and peace for his meal.” He huffed, ushering out their host. George called out after the man.

“Your generosity will be repaid tenfold, sir. Forgive the Marquis.” Once the door clicked shut George sprung from bed, hastily pulling on his breeches.

“The stairwell. Will they be concealed?”

“Yes, if we are quick.”

They crept from the room, sneaking into an empty servants quarters at the end of the hall. Inside was a small closet, one with a well hidden stairwell. Gilbert lit a candle and proceeded down the stairs, where he knocked against the wood of the door. Two taps. A pause. Three taps returned. Eagerly, he swung open the door.

In the cold winter air that rushed in George could see Alex, his hair powdered with snow. The ground had begun to dust with it, falling in thick clumps in the silence. His arms held two legs at his hips, and as George’s eyes adjusted he could see Ben held piggyback underneath Alex’s cloak. His face was worn and gray, fingers trembling.

“He's awake, but just barely.” Alex whispered, shifting Ben’s weight. George stepped forward, unclasping the cloak and scooping Ben up. He felt frail, curling instinctively into his warmth as he guided him inside.

The walk back to his quarters was silent. George wished it was to remain concealed. To keep their little plot quiet. But that wasn't the case. It was just numbing. The adrenaline had faded the moment George laid eyes on Alex at the door, and the wave of weariness that hit him was nauseating. They were home after a long journey, ready to shed their boots and roll into bed; but George knew sleep wouldn't come easily.

It was painful. The numbness he felt ascending the stairs gave way to a dull throbbing ache as Ben was laid out on the bed. Watching Alex and Gilbert’s faces contort in horror as they undressed him, seeing all the wounds inflicted upon him. George smoothed the hair from Ben’s brow, pretending not to hear Alex wretch into the rubbish pail. He returned, handkerchief dabbing at the spittle on his lips.

“Will he live?” He croaked. George sighed, but nodded.

“He will. Our Benjamin always survives.” He cooed, stroking Ben’s cheek lovingly. Beneath his purpled lids, Ben’s eyes twitched. Caught in a dream. George recounted his journey. He told his companions about the fight with Rogers. Ben stuffed in a tree. The bloody campsite and discarded uniform. How Arnold had trapped them in their room. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he ended his tale.

“Arnold did _something_ to Ben. Touched him. Unwillingly.” He said, casting his gaze towards Ben. “And I suggest that we let Benjamin speak of it in his own time.” Alex clenched his fist against his leg.

“The fucking bastard.” He spat. “I should have aimed higher.” George smiled, just barely.

“Any higher and I’d have lost an ear. Or worse.” He jabbed. Alex flushed, but shrugged in agreement. A soft sigh from the bed pricked their ears, and George turned in time to see Ben rouse. One flutter, then two, and his eyes opened. He searched the room. His eyes took their time on each face, studying their eyes and dropping to their lips as he brought himself together.

“Can it be?” He whispered, lips dry and cracking. “That I've woken from a dream, and this pain I feel is nothing more than a phantom fever?”

Gilbert choked out a sob, throwing his arms around Ben. “Dear brother, fever would cause me much less heartache.” He cried, kissing Ben’s bruised cheeks tenderly. Ben winced, but smiled all the same.

Alex placed a hand on Ben’s chest, tapping it lightly. “Sorry for the bumpy ride. You made quite the exit. Had to roll with the punches.” Ben laughed.

“I had just finished telling George you'd probably run in and shoot something too.” He said, tears welling in his eyes. “You _did_ shoot him. I saw it.” Alex nodded. Ben turned his eyes to George, eyes dancing over him as fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

“All in one piece. You're home, too.” Ben said. His voice cracked, lips trembling. George leaned down and kissed Ben’s forehead.

“Home.”

He felt the tickle of his cut lock against his cheek, the lingering reminder that he escaped with merely a scratch. But each bruise and scrape on Benjamin seared into his soul like a brand, a deep throbbing ache he would never be able to shake. It burned as he sat with Ben, feeding him slowly. It throbbed as he and Gilbert washed him down, minding his gash. It twisted in him like a knife as he watched Ben struggle to lay comfortably in bed.

Without hesitation, George disrobed, climbing into bed. He propped himself up against the headboard, nestling Ben between his legs, back resting against his chest. “Better?” He asked. Ben’s head lolled to the side, breathing becoming more even.

“Much.”

Alex and Gilbert undressed as well, flanking him on either side of the wide bed. They whispered to Ben, something soft and giggly George couldn't hear, but he felt it. Laughter. Sweet and simple laughter bubbling from Ben. They threw a blanket over themselves, hiding as if in a tent, gossiping like school children. George listened in, only catching the ends of jokes, or the beginnings of a rant. It went on for hours. Hours after George believed he was asleep, eyes closed and body heavy against the headboard. It stopped just as dawn has begun its rosy glow, ending with a string of hums that left Ben out cold against his stomach. Alex peeled back the covers, bags under his eyes.

“The first night is hardest.” He said, knowing George was pretending to sleep. “The silence let's you dwell on things.”

“And now it is morning. You've talked the night away.”

“And now he sleeps. As should you.”

George smiled. “And you, Alexander.”

* * *

_Traitor Benedict Arnold Flees to England_

The headline comes as no surprise to George as he reads it over breakfast. Outside his tent the news has spread through camp, raising tempers high at the sight of his name. He can hear soldiers mocking Arnold, songs being sung, the men caught in the upswing of patriotism in the wake of failed treachery.

He placed the paper aside, cutting into his meal as the uneven sound of footsteps approached his tent. A little past nine, and morning rounds are more than over. Ben trudged into the tent, snow clinging to his boots and heavy cloak.

“Last snow storm, I hope.” He sighed, discarding his wet garments. George let's his eyes drift over his lover, admiring the way his cheeks turned red in the cold.

Ben walked to the desk, a slight limp marring his step. The wound had healed, just not as well as George would have liked. The doctors say he will always have a slight limp. George isn't eager to believe them. In all the time he’s known Ben, he's known life. A man who has met death like an old friend, mingling and dancing until it was time for him to return to life, and making plans to meet again. Even now, Ben radiated health as he joins George at the desk, trading his small apple for a fatty piece of meat sitting on his plate.

“I was enjoying that.” George clipped, frowning at the tiny, frozen apple. Ben smirked, adding a piece of stolen bread to his meal.

“And now you're enjoying that. I've had enough apples to last me a lifetime.” He sighed, biting into the meat. George smiled, placing his fork aside.

“Have you seen the papers?” He asked. George studied Ben as he finished his bite, searching for discomfort. Ben only swallowed.

“I have.”

“And?”

Ben reached a hand across the table, grasping George’s tightly. “And…” he started, eyes sparkling. “I am ready for sleep. A long, good night’s sleep, safe with the man I love.”

George smiled, pulling Ben up out of his chair to embrace him. “Allow me to accompany you.” A long night's sleep. That's what they needed. A quilt, a good fire, and a dreamless sleep. One where the memory of blood in the snow drifts away on the breeze like little red threads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Holy crap, guys, it's over! Thank you so so much for all of your support and interest. A big thanks to madi-tumbles who proposed this fic. It's difficult to say goodbye to such a wonderful fic, but all good things come to an end. I will still be answering questions and little prompts on this universe via tumblr, so feel free to shoot me a message anytime.

**Author's Note:**

> More benwash on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy
> 
> Feedback appreciated! Let me know you had a good time :)
> 
> Note: there will be more than one chapter. Ao3 is still reading this as a one shot


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